


Deleted Scenes from the Cutting-Room Floor

by joely_jo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Outtakes, Robert's Rebellion, Romance, Year of the False Spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joely_jo/pseuds/joely_jo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'He remembered how, a few short weeks before, he had told Lyanna how love could grow from the tiniest seeds. But what he hadn’t told her was that sometimes it was bigger than that, and bolder, and sometimes it made a person do dangerous things…'</p><p>A story of Robert's Rebellion, where love lives and dies and lives again.</p><p>Out-takes, of varying lengths, cut from my story <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/409037/chapters/678426">Of Dragons, Roses and a Second Hand Match</a>. Mostly they were cut because I felt they shifted away from the flow of the story, or because they would disturb the alternating viewpoints I had chosen to write. Anyway, they are here now. I am posting them in the order in which they would appear had they been included in the main story, but it will be up to you to decide whereabouts exactly they should fit in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. BRANDON - The Price of Passion

**Author's Note:**

> No copyright infringement is intended. This is just for fun.

BRANDON – The Price of Passion

 

_This extract was actually posted first over at Livejournal, at gameofships’ Stark Naked contest just the other week. It did not win anything… which may, or may not, say something about its quality!_

 

In the cold light of dawn, choices often looked a little foolish. So reflected Brandon Stark as he lay awake and watched the dark-haired beauty sleeping in the crook of his arm. This was the time, he thought, when men left and women begged them to stay, a time of tears and accusations and cold indifference. He wondered whether that was how this morning was destined to play out.

His last time home at Winterfell, his father had turned the air blue over Barbrey Ryswell, angered way beyond his usual stoic chilliness. His entire reaction had come as something of a surprise to Brandon, and it was only then that he realised just how much this marriage pact with Hoster Tully meant to Lord Rickard. Rolling onto his back, he wondered what his father would make of this indiscretion. _Probably much the same_ , he thought. The daughter of some vassal house of Sunspear would hardly be fit enough a prize for the heir to Winterfell, even if she _was_ a handmaiden to the Princess. It would matter not that, as he stared at this woman, he felt something for her that he had never felt before. He had his duty, and he must abide by it.

And then there was Ned.

Brandon had never particularly cared about which other men his approaches towards a woman offended. If they wished to challenge him, they were welcome to do so. But his brother was another matter entirely, and now, as he stared at the white cloth roof of his pavilion, he felt as guilty as he had ever felt. He had stepped in on his brother’s behalf, and then usurped his position to satisfy his own desires. It was a dishonourable thing to do however you looked at it.

Brandon made a face in the half-darkness and cursed his own stupidity. _How am I going to tell him? Because tell him I must. I cannot deceive him any longer._

Beside him, Ashara stirred, a soft, enchanting moan oozing from her throat, and opened her eyes. In this light, they looked almost black. “Good morrow,” she murmured in a voice thick with sleep. Brandon felt his heart do a twisting thing in his chest. She was so fucking beautiful.

“Good morrow.”

She breathed in deeply and stretched her body out, arching her spine up. Brandon thought he had not seen anything more erotic in his entire life. His cock twitched. Her hair was mussed up at the back from their lovemaking and when she rolled towards him, it framed her face in a kind of bird’s nest of dark, dark strands that reeked of sex. She licked her dry lips. _Oh Gods…_

And then he was kissing her again. Despite all the good intentions he had formed in his head about this being the last time and how he would bid her goodbye and swear himself faithfully to Catelyn Tully from this day onwards, he just couldn’t help himself.

Ashara made a soft sound in her throat when he shifted atop her and he looked down, wondering suddenly if she were perhaps having an attack of conscience, but when he opened his eyes, she was far away, the expression on her face one of unfettered desire. His hands cupped her face so he could kiss her deeper, and then worked their way through her hair, smoothing it back. He could feel her gentle touch on his back, his shoulders and then lower, until she was grabbing him by his buttocks and pulling him upward. He sank inside her with a groan. She was so wet it was like sliding into the softest, warmest silk.

Many of the women he’d been with in his life had been content to lie still beneath him and let him control the pace, but not Ashara, no, she was eager and almost wanton, and her hips rose up to meet his. It wasn’t long before she was tensing beneath him, her fingers digging almost painfully into his skin, and crying out. That her cries might well be heard by anybody walking past the tent did not occur to Brandon in that moment; to his ears, it was the sweetest sound, and his thrusts accelerated out of control until he spent into her hard.

He collapsed on top of her and kissed every part of her face. Ashara laughed that beautiful, joyous laugh she had as he did so and Brandon felt his heart surge once again. “I love you,” he blurted out when he had gathered his breath. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

She smiled up at him. “Then I love you too,” she said. The simplicity of her reply, though, reminded him that their situation was anything but. If had she told him in that moment to take her to a septon to wed them, he would have offered no resistance whatsoever, and he would merrily have sailed into a perfect storm of chaos for the chance to hold this delightful creature in his arms again.

He wondered if this was how Shiera Seastar had so enslaved Bloodraven and Bittersteel.

Beneath him, Ashara shifted and Brandon lifted himself out of her and rolled onto his back. For a long, long time, they were silent, then finally she spoke: “You know, Dornish men and women often take paramours. And when they finally marry, some keep their paramours even then, and pay visits to their chambers as often as they do to their wives’ chambers.”

Brandon turned his head towards her. “I’m not sure that would be accepted of me,” he murmured bitterly.

“Many lords outside of Dorne sire bastards while they are married.”  He quirked a smile at her.

“Is that what you want from me? A bastard?”

“No, I want you,” she answered without hesitation.

Brandon grunted. He’d heard that line before, from a hundred different women, and it had lost its romanticism long ago. He pursed his lips. “Really? Is that what you _really_ want? Me?” He sighed heavily, and thought of Ned. “Honestly, my lady, I do not think you know me well enough to say that you want me. You might want what I can give you, and you might enjoy what we have just done, but _me_ … you know nothing of _me_. I am not so honourable a man. You would have been better off had you kept to my brother, Ned.”

“I didn’t want him, though,” she asserted. “You are much more… interesting, my lord.”

He did not reply, but sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bunk, then ran his hands through his hair. It felt damp with sweat. He looked down at his cock, still wet with _her_ and his own seed. He remembered his father’s words to him. _You keep your manhood in your breeches, Brandon, and you will have fewer problems for it, I swear. Men who scatter their seed often end up spending their lives pulling up weeds._ Ashara came to him and pressed up against his back; he could feel her teats shift over his skin. And then her lips were at his neck, a gentle caress, and he felt himself hardening all over again, even though they had not long finished. _Gods. Why am I so weak? Ned would not have this problem,_ he thought.

No, Ned would have stumbled and apologised his way through a single coupling, probably taking no more than half a dozen strokes before he spilled, and then he would have worried about whether he had hurt his lover. That thought, though, had not crossed Brandon’s mind. In fact, he had been so consumed by his own desires the night before that he hadn’t even asked Ashara if she was a maiden, although by the tightness of her cunt, he suspected she probably was.

Her teeth nibbling at his ear drew him back from his thoughts, and then she slipped around him, fluid and effortless like a watery mermaid, and knelt between his thighs. She looked up at him and her beautiful purple eyes smiled at him as she leaned forward and took his cock in her mouth. Feebly, he closed his eyes and surrendered.

Ned would have had more willpower in his little toe. 


	2. BENJEN - A Favour for a Prince

BENJEN – A Favour for a Prince

 

Rhaegar Targaryen was the sort of man who could command an army with a single stare, but Benjen was proud to say that it had taken a little more than a stare to persuade him to help the Crown Prince.

He had left the Hall of a Hundred Hearths with wine dripping from his hair and surcoat and running stickily down the back of his neck, to hurry back to the Stark encampment to change his garb before anybody else noticed how his sister had made a fool of him. He was grateful that the men sitting around him had been as shocked as he had been, and had swallowed their laughter into their cups. _Lyanna is going to get it in the neck for this one_ , he thought to himself as he ran.

Not that he supposed he hadn’t deserved it, to some extent. Of all his brothers, Benjen often thought that he knew Lyanna the best as he had spent the most time with her – while Ned had been away at the Eyrie and Brandon had been at Barrowton, Benjen had stayed in Winterfell with his sister. But knowing someone well also meant that sometimes you became a little numb to their feelings, and Ben knew he had been guilty of that tonight. He had noticed Lyanna watching Prince Rhaegar even before the first course had been served. She simply couldn’t stop glancing towards him – just fleeting looks they were, but to Benjen they were as clear as day. His sister liked the silver prince. But when he could have been sensitive and understanding, he had mocked her.

He stripped off his garb in his pavilion, balled up the soiled garments and threw them into his trunk. His hair was wet through and stank sourly of wine, so he filled his washing basin with water and dipped his head underneath, dragging his fingers through his hair. When he lifted his head back up again, the water was stained pink. He was combing his hair back again and tying it with a leather switch when the flap to the tent was pushed aside and a figure entered, alone.

At first, he thought it must be Ned, come to see if his pride had not been too injured, but when he turned around, he started. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen stood before him, the candlelight glimmering on his pale skin and hair. He cut an impressive figure in white silken breeches and a rich black doublet, shot through with metallic thread. For a moment, Ben stared at the man before him, a little dumbstruck by his presence here in his pavilion. “Benjen Stark,” the Prince said. _Dear Gods_ , thought Ben, _I am standing before the Crown Prince of the Realm in nothing but my smallclothes!_ He flushed with embarrassment and opened his mouth to say something but ended up doing nothing but stumbling over his words pitifully.

“Your Grace, I, er, um, yes, I…” He looked down at his state of undress and cleared his throat in an attempt to gather himself. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, I, er… I had come to change my garb. My sister--”

“Yes, I saw what your sister did to you. She has rather a spirit about her, doesn’t she?”

The Prince turned around a moment and scanned his gaze over the inside of the pavilion, allowing Ben to hurriedly pull on clean breeches and shirt. Absentmindedly, he picked up a dirk that lay on the table and turned it over in his hands, studying the polished ironwood hilt. “Has she always been that way?” he asked.

“Yes, Your Grace. My sister… my father says she has the wolf’s blood in her.”

“Hm,” said the Prince. He replaced the dirk on the table, then turned back to Benjen. “And they say that I am blood of the dragon, but what of it? What does it mean?”

Benjen stared at the Prince, utterly confused. He shifted his feet nervously; there was something about Rhaegar Targaryen that seemed almost of another world, an intensity in his eyes that spoke of great knowledge and gravitas. “I do not understand, Your Grace.”

“Many do not, and that has troubled me over the years. But no longer. There are things in this world that are greater than simple understanding – forces at work more powerful than any man can imagine. But yet some are familiar to us, grief… love…” He fixed his indigo eyes on Benjen. “I have needs of you, Benjen Stark, and I have come to you to beg your assistance.”

“Me?”

“I believe you may be someone who would be prepared to help me.” The Prince’s face was expressionless, but his eyes had softened somewhat.

“Perhaps,” agreed Benjen. He studied the Prince carefully. He had heard things about Rhaegar Targaryen, about how he was a man who loved books and study and who had a melancholy about him that sometimes made him seem aloof. But he had also heard that he was a valiant warrior and a just and reasonable man. “What would you wish of me?”

“I am intrigued by your sister and I am wondering… Would you consider delivering a message to her, from me?”

“Now?”

“Oh, not now, but when the time is right.”

“Why could you not give her the message yourself?”

The Prince smiled wryly. “It has taken a feat of some skill to escape from the men that guard me and speak with you here alone. Even then, there are eyes that watch me all the time, both friendly and not, and if I were to be seen delivering messages to your sister, words would be said, whispers would begin, and before I knew it, trouble would surely follow. No, it is best that this is kept secret. For all our sakes.”

“Oh,” said Benjen. The Prince’s words seemed genuine, and he could imagine that being in such a position meant that you were subject to scrutiny beyond that experienced by others. He looked at his feet, wondering just who was in the business of trying to bring down the Prince. As far as he knew, Rhaegar Targaryen had done little to invoke the wrath of anyone. “But, I am the youngest Stark here – you should be asking my brother Brandon to help you, or Ned.” The Prince smiled wryly.

“I do not believe your brother Brandon holds any love for me. In fact, I am quite sure of it. Your other brother, Eddard, is an honourable man, but while honour is a thing of great regard, it can also make one somewhat intractable.”

Benjen frowned. The Prince’s comment sounded a little like a veiled insult. He bristled. “And you think that I am without honour, is that it?”

“Not at all,” said the Prince. “You are of the North.” He did not elaborate further, as if he felt what he’d said was explanation enough. Mollified, Benjen regarded the Prince a moment. “I shall understand if you say no, Benjen,” he continued. “You know me not at all and I would not wish to threaten you as my father might do. If you choose to do as I request, you must do so of your own free will.”

That eased Benjen somewhat. He had been thinking that if he refused, then surely there would be some consequence, and he knew what kind of consequences followed the Targaryens around.  He drew in a deep breath and blew it out again. _Perhaps I am being manipulated here_ , he thought. The Prince seemed like he possessed enough intelligence to be able to outwit most men, and Benjen had the feeling that he did not present much of a challenge in that regard. _Mayhaps I should try some bartering of my own, and get what I can from this._ “What do I gain from this arrangement?”

Prince Rhaegar raised his eyebrows. He began to meander around the pavilion. “Of course you would ask such a thing…” He smiled. “And I suspect my gratitude would not be sufficient for you either?”

Benjen pursed his lips.

“I could offer you coin, I could offer you lands and titles, but I suspect that you are not the sort of man who could be bought with such things. Instead I would say this… assist me, Benjen Stark, and I will not forget your favour as long as I live. Should ever you, or your family, have need of me, I will most willingly oblige.”

It was an interesting offer – being a friend to the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms could surely be only a good thing. The Targaryens might not have their dragons anymore, but they were still the royal family and every man in the Seven Kingdoms knew that fact. He, on the other hand, was the youngest Stark son, and Winterfell would likely never be his. But, if he had a friend in Rhaegar Targaryen, perhaps he could become a man of the Kingsguard, or earn a position on the High Council. “Can I have a few days to consider?” asked Ben. The Prince nodded his assent.

“Of course. But I would ask that you keep our conversation to yourself. Will you do that?”

“I will, Your Grace,” replied Benjen.

“I thank you for that. And now I must take my leave. Consider my words carefully, and I hope to have your answer soon.” He offered Benjen a smile, then ducked out of the pavilion and was gone.

For a long moment, Benjen stood staring at the exit, and then he sat down on the edge of his bed and sighed. His mind was alive with thoughts – what exactly the Prince would want him to do, what reward he might garner from his efforts, what Lyanna would think if she knew. If the way she had been watching the Prince all evening was anything to go by, then she would certainly be pleased. And he reasoned that he owed his dear sister something at least for jesting about her so publicly.

Three days later, when the Knight of the Laughing Tree did not appear in the lists to defend himself, the king was wroth. The trumpet sounded, the call went out, but nothing but silence filled Benjen’s ears. He glanced around at the people about him. Ned was quiet and expressionless, as usual, and Brandon’s eyes were narrowed on the tourney field, searching around and around. The trumpet sounded again and the herald repeated his call. “Yesterday’s champion, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, will face Lord Yohn Royce!”

At the far end of the field, Royce sat atop a grey courser ready to meet his opponent and turned his horse in an impatient circle when, again, nobody appeared to answer the call.

King Aerys stood up then, and his face twisted with anger. Prince Rhaegar was at his side almost immediately, whispering something in his ear, but the King would not heed him. He raised his hands to quiet the crowds and stated: “At the feast last night, I declared that this Knight of the Laughing Tree was no friend of mine. It seems my words have cast fear into his craven heart and he dare not show his face!” A quiet wave of comments and nervous laughter rippled through the gathered men and women. The King’s eyes flashed and he continued, “Therefore this mystery knight is no true knight.” He turned to Prince Rhaegar. “I hereby charge my son and the men of my Kingsguard to seek out this man and bring him before me to face the King’s justice.”

Ned and Brandon exchanged a look. Ben leaned over and whispered to Ned, “Does he mean to kill him?”

“I believe so, brother,” replied Ned. Benjen frowned. He had heard of the king’s madness, but this seemed entirely unjust. The mystery knight had broken no rules.

“He has done nothing wrong, though,” he exclaimed, unable to keep the shock from his voice. Ned shushed him quickly, but Ben ignored him. “Mystery knights enter tournaments all the time. Ser Barristan once tilted as a mystery knight, didn’t he?”

“He did. Though he was but a boy and only competed because the Prince of Dragonflies took pity upon him. This Knight of the Laughing Tree has vanquished three of the preceding day’s champions. It is that that has angered the King.”

“The mystery knight was small too,” said Benjen. “Perhaps he was just a squire himself.”

Ned nodded his head almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But the King has spoken his will.”

In the royal box, Prince Rhaegar was speaking in hushed, urgent tones with his father, but appeared to be making little headway. After a few moments, he turned, spread his hands in a hopeless gesture, then called for Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent to accompany him. With heavy steps, the Prince descended to the tourney field, then disappeared with the two Kingsguard knights at his side. “Do you think they’ll find him?” Benjen whispered urgently.

“I do not know,” replied Ned. “For his sake, I hope not.”

Once Prince Rhaegar had left the field, the King sat back down on his throne seat and the crowd waited. Nobody dared to suggest that the competition resume, and it wasn’t long before people began to drift away, out of the growing heat of the sun. The day was warm and beneath his thick northern tunic and doublet, Ben fidgeted, feeling the sweat trickling down his back. Beside him, Ned looked similarly uncomfortable. “How long do you think we’ll have to sit here and wait?” he asked his brother after an hour had gone by.

“As long as it takes Prince Rhaegar to find the Knight of the Laughing Tree, I suppose,” answered Ned.

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I do not know…”

Another hour passed, and then another, and finally, the crowds parted and the Prince emerged. His silvery hair and the red tunic and cloak he wore made him easy to identify. He was alone, neither the Kingsguard knights who had accompanied him on his quest, nor the Knight of the Laughing Tree, were with him. As the people in the crowds recognised him, so silence descended, and all eyes turned to the King. Aerys stood, his bony hands curling into fists. Rhaegar walked slowly across the tourney field and it was then that Benjen spotted what he was carrying in his right hand – it was the shield bearing the sigil from which the Knight of the Laughing Tree had acquired his moniker. “He’s not found the mystery knight,” hissed Benjen to Ned.

“He’s found his shield though.” A frown patterned across Ned’s face as the Prince came before his father and held up the shield for all to see.

“My noble father,” he began. “My men and I have searched and searched the castle grounds, the Godswood and the shores of the lake and I am afraid that I have been unsuccessful in my quest. I believe the Knight of the Laughing Tree has fled the tourney grounds. We found his shield propped beneath a tree in the Godswood, and I present that to you now.”

He handed the shield to the King, who stared for a long moment at the sigil painted upon it with angry eyes. Before him, Rhaegar stood motionless and waiting until the King thrust the shield to his page. “I denounce this Knight of the Laughing Tree,” he declared in a carrying voice. “Should any man here set eyes upon him, he should bring him to me at once. But for now, the tournament must begin again.”

“If you permit it, Father,” interrupted the Prince. “I should like to stand in the Knight of the Laughing Tree’s place. I had intended to sign my name to the lists, and if I do not take his place, then one of the men he beat yesterday will have to be brought forward to do so instead, and that does not seem fitting.”

King Aerys looked at his son with a sceptical stare; he seemed to weighing up whether there was more to Rhaegar’s request than he had stated. “This request is most unusual,” said the King, “but you _have_ spoken of entering the tourney yourself, and so, yes, I will grant you this.”

With a nod, Rhaegar stepped backwards. He appeared to afford a fleeting glance at Brandon and Ned, then turned and walked away. The voices from the crowd rose in crescendo again and Ben smiled in open relief. “He must have got away,” he said to Ned.

“Maybe,” said Ned distantly.

“Or maybe he’s still here, putting on a big act.” It was an exciting proposition to think that the mystery knight might very well be wandering through the crowds at this very moment, smiling to himself at his deception. Ned said nothing to that. And then another thought occurred to Ben, one that he considered was possibly even treasonous to repeat to his brother. But repeat it he did. “Or _maybe_ Prince Rhaegar _let_ him get away! Now that would be even better, wouldn’t it?

Shaking his head, Ned replied, “Oh, I doubt that very much, Ben. Prince Rhaegar might not be made from the same mould as his father, but he is still a prince and his father is the King. He would not dare to defy him.” He climbed to his feet then and looked about. “Have you seen Lyanna, Ben?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Not since yesterday.”

“Hm. I shall see if I can find her before the next round of jousting begins. The Prince must needs armour up if he is to challenge Lord Royce in the next tilt, so I expect we will be waiting for some time yet.”

Ben nodded. _Where_ is _Lyanna?_ She would not want to miss the Prince if he was riding in the joust. He got to his feet and followed in the direction in which Ned had left, intending to find her and let her know what she was about to miss. Quickly, he slipped through the crowds and then scanned for the Stark banners flying above the encampment so he could head off in the right direction for Lyanna’s pavilion. Between the encampment and the tourney field, a number of stalls had sprung up selling snack foods, armour, heraldry and assorted other wares, and Ben slowed to a walk as he perused them. He was alongside a stall that was selling smoked river trout and fresh bread when Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard stepped in front of him and stopped him in his tracks. Ben halted and stared at the knight. “Benjen Stark,” said Ser Arthur in simple greeting.

“Yes?” confirmed Ben. “What is it?” He frowned. “I am just going to look for my sister. I have done nothing wrong.”

“I did not say you had,” Ser Arthur said. He paused, glanced about them, and then grabbed Ben by the shoulder and pulled him away from the main thoroughfare. “Prince Rhaegar desires your answer.”

Ben shifted on the spot, disliking the feeling that he had been cornered and a demand was being made of him. He could hear the fish-seller shouting his wares loudly, his voice carrying over the other sounds of the tourney. “Why cannot he speak to me himself?”

“The Prince is preparing to joust in place of the Knight of the Laughing Tree and is presently indisposed. But in the meantime, he wishes to know whether he can entrust you with a task of his own.” There was something unwavering about Ser Arthur’s tone and stance and Benjen knew there would be no getting away from this without an answer, one way or the other. But the Prince’s offer to take the place of the Knight of the Laughing Tree had confirmed in Benjen’s mind that he was a man of honour, and Ben admired that.  

“I will do whatever he asks of me,” he answered. “But I want an assurance that whatever it is, it remains between me and him.”

Ser Arthur Dayne smiled and nodded succinctly. “I am sure those terms will be satisfactory. The Prince would wish the same, I am certain.” Benjen nodded. “This is the first thing he would wish of you.” The knight held out his hand; in it was a letter, written upon fine white paper, and sealed with white wax. Taking it, Benjen frowned. There was no name written on the front. “The Prince wishes this letter to be given to Lady Lyanna.”

“What does it concern?” Ben asked.

“I do not know,” admitted Ser Arthur. “It is not my place to question my Prince.”

Benjen regarded the letter thoughtfully. _Is it romantic?_ He cast his mind back to the previous evening. Although Lyanna had appeared to be looking often in the Prince’s direction, he had not noticed if any of her looks were being returned. Once he had become used to the presence of the royal party, the sounds, smells and sights of the feast had commanded his attention instead. _Or is this something more sinister?_ He turned the letter over in his hands. It felt heavier than it ought to. “I shall see to it,” he said, meeting the knight’s dark eyes. “And the second?”

“The second will prove a little more of a challenge. As a token of his support for his fellow lords, your father, Lord Rickard, sent a dozen blue winter roses to Lord Whent from the gardens at Winterfell so they could be used in the Queen of Love and Beauty’s crown. The Prince has need of one of those blue roses by this evening.”

“He wants me to steal a blue rose from the crown for him?” Benjen could not keep the surprise from his voice. _What does he want with a blue rose?_ “Why can’t he just go and take one himself? He’s the Crown Prince. He can do whatever he wants.”

“It is known now that there are men out there who would wish the Prince ill. He is being watched. As a result I have advised him to act with care, for fear of exposing himself still further.”

Benjen stared at the knight. “There is danger in this…” he said.

“There is,” agreed Ser Arthur. “And that is why there must be a veil over all. Do you consent, Benjen Stark?”

Slowly, Ben nodded. Arthur Dayne held out his hand, which Ben took, and shook, and said: “And now I must take my leave. The Prince will shortly be readying to joust.” He afforded Benjen a small smile, and then turned and disappeared, leaving Benjen standing alone and wondering just how he was going to go about pilfering a blue rose. 


	3. ASHARA - What Sadness Lengthens

ASHARA DAYNE – What Sadness Lengthens

 

“Get your things together. We are leaving.”

Ashara looked up from her stitching to see her brother, standing there in the door of her chambers in his Kingsguard scales and with the hilt of Dawn poking up above his shoulder. He was dressed for battle, but he looked weary and worried – she could tell by the tiny lines at his eyes and the downwards tilt of his mouth. “Leaving?” she asked. She could hardly bring herself to object. It seemed like emotions were something that had fled from her these last few days, once the wound had stopped bleeding out.

“Yes.” He looked around at her chambers, his eyes flying over the contents as if he was imagining already how much effort would be required to pack them up and move them. “I am taking you home.”

“I don’t want to go home… I want to stay here.”

When he replied, his voice was gentle, and not without sympathy: “You can’t stay here, Ashy, if they find out Brandon Stark is your child’s father, what will become of you?” Pointedly, he glanced at her swollen middle. She had done a good job of loosening the laces on her bodice and positioning a gathered bow around her middle, so to the casual observer, it was not obvious that she was with child. Elia knew though, as did a few others, including the blessed Ser Barristan, in whom she had confided soon after Harrenhal. “What will become of the babe?”

Ashara balked. Her brother was right, of course, but that did not make what he intended for her any less painful. King’s Landing had been her home now for over four years, since Rhaegar Targaryen had married Elia of Dorne, and for a long while, she had been happy here. But then had come Storm’s End, and Harrenhal, and Brandon Stark, and now here she was, heavy with child and her lover murdered by the Mad King. She nodded slowly. “They won’t know whose child I carry, will they though? I can just say the father was a guardsman or a pot boy.”

Her brother looked at her with scepticism in his dark eyes, as if he hardly believed she could have said something so foolish. “A pot boy? Do you think your little affair at Harrenhal was so secret a thing? There are people in this city who have known about you and Brandon Stark for a long time, sister. And it will not take many whispers in Aerys’s ear for him to see your unborn babe as a threat as big as he saw your lover. And then what?” Arthur sighed heavily and shook his head. “Do you expect me to stand by and watch him cut the child from your belly and burn him alive? Because that’s what he’ll do if he finds out. And I will not be able to do a thing then – my _vows_ will not permit it.” He grabbed up her hands and clasped them tightly in his own. Ashara could feel their nervous warmth, and the sweat sticky on his palms. “So, come, pack up what you need for a short stay. We can have the rest sent for when you are safe.”

She stared hopelessly at him. There seemed no point in arguing with him, his mind was so completely set. And deep down, Ashara knew that what he spoke was true enough – King Aerys had already called for Ned Stark’s head, so undoubtedly he was convinced there was some kind of Stark plot that threatened him. Who knew what he would do if he learned Brandon was the father of her child? “When I am not to be found, people will ask questions,” she argued. “What reason will you give for my departure?”

“I’ll tell them that you have fallen ill and need to spend some time breathing the fresh air of the Summer Sea.” He gave her hands a squeeze again. “I’m sorry, Ashy, I really am, but I will not have you in danger. You are much too precious to me.”  

Three hours later and Ashara found herself bundled up on the back of a grey horse with an uncomfortable gait, heading along the Roseroad, her brother riding alongside her with a rigid back. He had not spoken a word to her since they had left the capital, but Ashara knew that his mind was awhirl and his senses were fine-tuned onto every sound and sight in the dimming light of evening. They would ride until the sun set below the bank of night-cloud and darkness fell, and then it would be a makeshift camp and sleep beneath the stars.

When finally they stopped, every bone in her body was aching, and the motion of the horse had left her feeling queasy and unwell. Arthur helped her down from her mount and she watched while he erected a small tent and then gathered kindling and dry grass and lit a fire a few paces before it. They were about a dozen leagues south of the Kingswood, alongside a small satellite wood of young beech trees. Night was gathering on the horizon; it would be but an hour before it was fully dark. “We could have continued on to Bitterbridge,” said Ashara as she stared sullenly at the tent. It did not look a comfortable place to sleep.

“Would that we could, but had we stopped there, we would have been seen by all. No, until we get far enough from the capital, we need to keep out of prominent sight. Father is sending some men to meet us on the other side of the Mander, because I must needs return to King’s Landing as soon as possible.”

“That will be another day’s travel.” She couldn’t keep the resentment from her voice. He had hurried her so fast from the city that she had not even had chance to say goodbye to Elia and the children.

“I know…” He offered her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, sister. I would rather this was not happening myself.”

Ashara said nothing. She sat down on the ground and stared at the growing flames. Inside her, she felt the babe stir and she laid a hand on her belly as soothe. Arthur pulled out blankets and food from his saddlebags; he draped a blanket about her shoulders and then shared out some salt pork and rye bread between them.

For a while, they sat in silence, eating their meal, but then Arthur spoke up: “Where did you meet him?” Ashara looked up, a little surprised by his interest. He had never enquired about the suitors their father had insisted she entertain. She smiled sadly and felt the tears that had all but dried up well again behind her eyes.

“At the tourney at Storm’s End.” She shook her head, closed her eyes a moment and tried to gather herself. “It, it seems like half a lifetime ago now… He had been injured in his first tilt and he was hurting – his body and his pride, both. I saw him looking at me and so I went to him. We talked, and… well, that was enough. We both knew we could not continue it though. He was betrothed to Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, I am but a handmaiden and House Dayne is not important enough a house for the heir to Winterfell. It was never going to be possible. But for a while, it was the best thing in my life, and for a while, we believed that everything would be all right, that we could continue as paramours even after he was married.”

She had been expecting her brother to frown at her story, but his face did not change the whole time. He drew in a breath. “I wish things had been different for you both,” he said eventually.

“As do I, dear brother, as do I.” A single tear slipped down her cheek and she closed her eyes to the grief. She had not been in the throne room when he had been strung up in that ghastly contraption and for that she was grateful – there were enough terrible things that filled her dreams, without that. She didn’t think that she would have been able to keep quiet as he had strained and strained to reach his sword. And then surely the Mad King would have had her killed as well. “Did aught ever become of your investigations?” she asked after a moment.

Arthur sighed. “Little, I am afraid. There was a message involved, of that I am certain, delivered by a man wearing a hooded cloak. But his identity remains a mystery. The serving girl who took the message from him could not accurately say what he looked like.”

“The Prince told me before he left for Winterfell that he had everything planned out. He seemed so confident. I don’t know what went wrong…”

“Since Harrenhal we have believed that Prince Rhaegar has an enemy, and if I had to place a wager, I would say the same enemy was responsible for whatever was told to Brandon Stark. I don’t believe the truth was involved. Brandon was known for acting first and thinking later, but I do not believe he would have been so foolhardy had he known the truth of it. After all, his family stood to gain from Rhaegar’s intentions. No, I feel certain lies were told.” He frowned into the fire. “When I visited him in the Black Cells, he refused to speak to me about it, but just kept repeating that he wanted the Prince to face the King’s justice. It seemed a most ungrounded demand, given that Lady Lyanna was complicit in Rhaegar’s plan.”

Ashara’s tears were coming thicker now and Arthur stopped, as if suddenly realising how his words were upsetting her. She wiped at her face and then looked up at the starry sky pleadingly. “Everything always seems so cruel,” she moaned. And then her voice grew low and her eyes hardened. In her head, Brandon's face drifted before her, turned blue and starved of air. “The King’s justice? And what was that, exactly? If I could lay my hands on Aerys Targaryen’s scrawny neck I would squeeze and squeeze until his eyes popped.”

“His reaction was gross and exaggerated,” Arthur allowed. “But his mind is not his own.”

“I do not care,” said Ashara. “A man who is not in his right mind should not be allowed to rule.”

Her brother said nothing to that, and an uneasy silence fell between them. Eventually, she struggled to her feet and brushed herself down. “I need to get some sleep, dear brother,” she explained. “I’m sorry that I have burdened you in this. If I had known how things were fated to play out, I might never have looked back at Brandon when he glanced my way at Storm’s End.”

Arthur nodded, then replied, “But then you might not have loved…”

“No…” Her voice was tired, and sad, and heavy with regret. _I sound like a woman twice my age_ , she thought. With one hand pressed to her belly, she ducked inside the tent and closed the flap behind her. 


	4. LYANNA - Dragon Dreams

LYANNA – Dragon Dreams

 

In the tussock grass around the tower, crickets were chirping. The night was warm and the sky marbled the colour of a blood-orange split open. The sun was huge on the horizon, a great fiery ball that left a dark circle on Lyanna’s vision after she looked at it. Rhaegar sat behind her, his back up against the wall of the tower, his legs spread so she could sit between them, and his arms wrapped loosely around her middle. She could feel the drawing in and out of his breath as he held her. They had been that way for over an hour and Lyanna had not grown tired of it. There was something comforting about his embrace, as if she was safe within it, and as long as he was with her, nothing bad could ever reach her. One of his hands caressed the gentle swell of her belly, drawing lazy patterns on it that meant nothing and everything.

Several weeks had passed since the septon had tied their hands together and pronounced them husband and wife, and since they had discovered that she was with child. A raven had arrived yesterday from Oswell Whent in King’s Landing bringing news of Ned’s marriage to Catelyn Tully and Rhaegar had opened a barrel of wine so that they could toast the union. “When all this is over,” he had told her, “we will have a feast to celebrate both our marriages.”

They were hopeful words, Lyanna knew, and she suspected that so did he. They were a long way from peace, and a still longer way from celebrations being held between their families.  

Silence hung between them, until finally, he broke it.

“I think I will remember this night forever.” He sighed happily. “The stars, and the sky, and the sun as it set. And you… most of all, you.”

Lyanna smiled and took up his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers together. “It is a beautiful sunset,” she said.

“I have oft been enchanted with sunsets. Many times I have lain outside at the ruins of Summerhall as twilight descended, thinking and waiting for sleep to take me away.” She felt him shift his position slightly. A moment passed.

“At Summerhall?”

“Mm… such a terrible thing.”

There was something so deeply sad in his tone that she twisted in his arms to look at him. His face was faraway and troubled. All Lyanna knew of Summerhall was that King Aegon V had died there, along with his eldest son and Ser Duncan the Tall, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Aegon’s greatest friend. It was a tragedy that had cast a long, dark shadow over the succession and was said to haunt Rhaegar. 

“Many have claimed that my great-grandfather was to blame, but he was not. It was treason of the highest order… treason and murder,” said Rhaegar with a sigh.  “But it matters not now.”

“Summerhall is a ruin, isn’t it?”

“Yes. There is nothing left but a burned out shell. Weeds grow where once there were beautiful gardens and the blackened beams have become home to owls and bats.”

“But you used to go there?” He nodded. It seemed strange to her that someone would languish in grief. “Why? If it is such a place of sadness, why would you go there?”      

His indigo eyes fixed on her. “There was only ever one reason: my dreams were always most potent there. I would go there and when I slept beneath the ruined beams, I would dream things that would keep me thinking for years.” He smiled at her raised eyebrows. “Some of the things I told you about on the _Silver Sword_ were dreamt in the ruins of Summerhall.”

Lyanna cast her mind back, remembering the dreams he had narrated to her about the End of Days and of how he had known of her before they had even met, but still, his words had left her curious and questioning. _Winter is coming_ , she thought. She had never given much thought to the Stark words before, thinking them just a typically grim Northern omen, but the more she thought on what Rhaegar had told her of the End of Days, the more they seemed as if they were their own dire warning of things to come, and mayhaps little different from his prophecies and dreams. “Have you had any other dreams since that night in the barrow?” she asked.

At that, Rhaegar’s face grew troubled – his pale eyebrows knit together a moment, and then he sighed, looking off into the distance at something that only he could truly see. For a long moment, he was silent and Lyanna thought that perhaps he did not wish to answer her question, but then he whispered, “Just the other night I dreamed of this tower, I am sure of it. And then…” He paused. “And then I have seen a castle amid snow. Everything is cold and empty and there are bones everywhere – in the stables, in the courtyard. It’s so silent. But just when it seems that the place is abandoned, from out of the dark, stony ground, a great dragon surges, its wings crumpled and its skin pale and new. But its eyes are flashing and bright and it looks straight at me and it _sees_ me.”

Lyanna shivered. Whenever he talked of these dreams he had, she couldn’t help thinking that it was no wonder that others thought him so melancholy. _If I had seen such things…_ “My great-uncle Daeron had the same dream,” he continued, “and he thought it meant that the dragons were to return. That somehow they would be woken from sleeping beneath the earth.” He shook his head, his frustration evident. “My dreams have often haunted me, and weighed heavy on my mind. I wish I knew what they all meant,” he finished.

She reached for his hands and took them in her own. The sun had sunk below the horizon now and the stars were coming out. “Maybe that is the point,” she said. “Maybe we’re not always meant to know and the finding out comes from living.” He tilted his head and regarded her thoughtfully.

“Perhaps.” He glanced at the sky, graded blue and orange and black. “We should retire, my love, before the chill of the night sets in. I would not wish you to catch cold.” Lyanna made a face. She was quite warm enough here, but when she opened her mouth to object, she noticed the look upon his face and knew that she had to consent. There was something fragile about him in that moment. And so she held out her hand for him to take and let him pull her to her feet.

With slow quietness, he led her up the steps to their chamber and together, they undressed and slid between the blankets, lying as a mirror of one another. “I’m sorry,” he said after a while. “I do not mean to let it overtake me, yet sometimes it happens. Do you remember the night at Harrenhal, when I played a song for the gathering?”

Lyanna nodded, then smiled despite herself. “And Benjen teased me, so I emptied my wine cup over his stupid head…”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Such nerve…” His voice trailed into a sigh, then he began again, “I was singing of the story of Azor Ahai, from ancient Asshai. One of my forefathers read of it in a book that has long since been lost.”

Frowning, Lyanna tried to recall what he had sung of, but could remember only sadness and his dulcet tones interwoven with the sweet music of his harp. The details of the song were quite forgotten. “I, I can’t remember what it was about,” she admitted. He smiled.

“No matter… The important thing is not that story, but a prophecy told later that speaks of the return and rebirth of this mythic figure of Azor Ahai in the form of a new face, a prince that was promised.” His voice took on a story-telling tone, and his words flowed like the words of a remembered tale: “‘There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.’ When I was born, many in my family believed that _I_ was this warrior, the Prince that was Promised. Even I came to think the same – it was why I picked up sword and lance and learned to fight.”

“You are a Prince,” said Lyanna. As soon as she had said the words, though, she realised that they might have sounded a little patronising, though that had not been her intent, and so she added, “But what have you been promised?”

He smiled. “As far as I know, nothing of any consequence, but I was born amidst the smoke and salty tears of Summerhall, and that is written in the texts as well – Azor Ahai will be reborn amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons from stone, just like in my dream.” He gave a sigh. “I have spent years of my life trying to interpret this prophecy, and others, and the true meaning behind dreams, and yet still I feel unsure of my conclusions. I am not the Prince that was Promised, I have realised that much. But he will come from my line, so if it is not me who is this promised prince, then surely it must be my son Aegon.” 

Lyanna gave him a vague nod. It seemed to her that this deducing of prophecies and dreams was an uncertain business, and fraught with troubles. Her hand caressed his back. “I think you should sing me that song again,” she said quietly, deliberately turning their talk away from such inexact things. He chuffed a laugh even as she leaned in to kiss him.

“You want me to sing to you?”

“I would like that, yes,” she replied.

He pulled her closer, then, and whispered, “Maybe later…” even as he rose up and kissed her. One hand threaded its way through her hair as he quickly deepened the kiss, then broke free and began to trace his way down her throat, across her collarbone, over the rise of her breast. His warm lips curled around a teat and when he sucked a moment, Lyanna arched up and cried out at the sensation. Down he went, then, over her belly and its gentle curve. She grit her teeth when his mouth slid between her legs and jolted, so he had to lay his hands on her waist and hold her still while his tongue caressed her.

He seemed to sense that she was growing close to release and so he backed himself away, rolled atop her and slid inside. _It feels so right,_ she thought, _like this is how it is meant to be._ She wondered briefly if he had seen them like _this_ in his dreams, and smiled at the thought. Her arms embraced him, pulling him still closer. They fit. She sighed and breathed deep of the warm scent that lay in the soft hollow between his neck and shoulder. Rhaegar lifted his head and kissed her, and she could taste herself on his lips. He adjusted his position so he was not pressing down on her belly, and then they fell into a now well-known rhythm.

Inside her, the pressure quickly built again – the babe had put fire in her blood, he had said the other day, when she had surprised him while he was reading in the shade by the stream. Then, they had made love thrice in succession, their bodies barely having had chance to cool and slow before they began anew, and he had laughed at her insatiability. Now, she felt the tightening deep within and she rolled her hips up to his and then she was there, tremors spreading out from her core to the very ends of her limbs. The shaking had barely subsided when he let out a tiny sound, a sort of ‘uh’, and then he pushed forward hard and she felt the heat and the surge of him inside her.

As their breathing quietened, and he rolled off and lay beside her, his hand still grasped hers, like she was a kind of lifeline to which he clung. She yawned. Her body felt heavy and sated and even though she fought back, her eyelids began to close. As she fell to sleep, the last thing she saw was him looking at her, smiling.

When she woke, hours later, he was sitting at the end of the bed, his little harp in his lap, and the notes were sounding out clear and true. But it was not the song she remembered. This one was new and it was warm and sweet and tender and it spoke her name like a caress. 


	5. EDDARD - As Cold As Stone

EDDARD – As Cold as Stone

 

It was always cold down in the crypts.

As he descended the steps in silence, his boots sounding loud on the stone floor, he felt the air grow colder with every step down, becoming almost heavy, like it was a weight pressing down on him. The lantern cast a dull yellow glow before him, and shadows shifted and flickered. And then there was that smell – if stone had a smell, this was it – that filled the air, damp and pungent.

As a young boy, Ned had been afraid of the crypts and had often hovered behind his father when he had been brought down here. Now, the place merely chilled him to the core, and left him with a sense of gloom deeper than the darkest recesses of the oldest tombs. Holding the lantern aloft, he headed along the walkway, passing by the pillars of grey granite, barely glancing at the stone lords that sat between them. The fresh-carved figures of his father and brother were near the bottom, and he had had Lyanna’s tomb placed alongside them.

They had buried her bones yesterday, with little ceremony, just he and Benjen and a few of the household who had attended her most. It had been a quiet and subdued affair.

The sepulchre in which they had placed her was due to be sealed up today, and a small stack of square stones had been piled before her statue, ready for the business to be done. When the stones were in place, mortar would be used to close up the cracks and his sweet sister would be left to sleep forever.

Her tomb, like Brandon’s, was smaller than Lord Rickard’s, but the stonemason had carved a good likeness of her. Her face was long, but with high, defined cheekbones, and a determined set to her jaw. But her eyes were stone now, and carried none of the spark and energy that had been her mark. Ned beheld her image and felt the chasm of grief ache inside him. There was a blue rose laid at her feet, and for a moment, it made him pause. He wondered who had put it there. The bushes in the Glass Gardens were blooming again, though, so he supposed it was mere happenstance, a chance flower picked and left by one of those who had attended her entombment yesterday, and dismissed the thought. He set down the lantern at his feet, then slid the cloth bag that had been hanging from his shoulder down to the ground and unbuttoned the flap that closed it. He thrust his hand inside and pulled forth a folded and rolled bundle of soft, fine, black material. Standing, he looked long at the statue of his sister.

“I saved it for you,” he said in a low voice that echoed in the vaulted ceiling. “I thought you might want it.” He paused. “I wish you’d been able to tell me,” he continued. “If we had known, perhaps something could have been done, some arrangement sought.” Yet even as he said the words, Ned knew that they were fanciful. Marriage contracts were wrought in stone once they had been agreed, and if his father had broken the deal with Robert Baratheon, he would have made him a sworn enemy. And it was not good to have enemies in the Seven Kingdoms – in the end, even the Targaryens had discovered _that_ to their peril. “Your boy is doing well. He’s healthy and strong… He’s already looking like a true Stark, so the Gods are on our side in that. And I promise you – in time, I will tell him. When it is safe for him to know and he is old enough to understand.”

In his hands, the material unfurled and fell to the floor, and Ned felt tears prickle behind his eyes at the sight of the red dragon embroidered flawlessly into the silk. He wondered how she had looked wearing it, and what the expression on her face had been when the Prince had draped it around her shoulders.

But it was a dangerous thing to have in his possession. Just as the unknowing babe who now bore the name Jon Snow was. He thought of what he had promised Lyanna, and of her crown of blue roses, and the thorns that lay hidden. He hoped they would not draw too much blood. 

With a sigh, he folded it up again, then slipped behind Lyanna’s statue and laid the cloak carefully atop the casket that contained her bones. Now that it was folded back up again, the Targaryen dragon was no longer visible, and it seemed to all who might chance to look upon it, as nothing more than a black shroud.  

He stood back. _Should I have a sword forged for her too?_ Lord Rickard had always forbid Lyanna to carry one, even though she had wished for it and campaigned long and hard for the privilege. He looked around. All the Lords of Winterfell had their own blades. Even Brandon had one, still shining and new. The old story went that the iron swords kept the vengeful spirits at bay; Ned wasn’t sure if he believed it or not, but the thought of some of those ancient Kings in the North whose swords had rusted away to nothing being free to wander about the castle had always bothered him. If he did not get her a sword, did that mean that her ghost would be free to walk the castle?

He frowned at the foolishness of his thoughts. He had learned much and more of magic while he had fought this war, but the idea that ghosts could walk again was ridiculous. Lyanna was dead, and that was the way she would stay, sword or no sword.

He picked the lantern back up again and turned and headed back out of the crypts.

That evening, he ate with the household, talked briefly with Benjen, then retired early to his chambers, exhausted from the last few days. He took off his garb, then climbed between the blankets and furs in only his smallclothes. In just a few moments, he was fast asleep.

Something woke him a little after midnight. He had been dreaming of more innocent times, and it took him a moment to orient himself and to distinguish dream from reality. And then he heard what had woken him – a child was crying somewhere nearby. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat listening.

It could only be Jon Snow.

Ned frowned into the night-blackness. The boy hardly ever seemed to cry – he mewled softly sometimes, when he was tired or hungry, but mostly he was silent. It was a strange thing. _Wylla will be with the boy, though,_ he thought. _I have no need to trouble myself with his tears._ But even as he listened, the crying seemed to crescendo and Ned found himself climbing from his bed and donning a robe, a slow sense of unease beginning to grow inside him.

When he opened the door to his chambers, the crying became louder still. There was something frantic about the wailing, so he fumbled down the darkened hallway as quickly as he could and up the short flight of steps to the nursery. The door was open and Wylla was nowhere to be seen. The cradle was beneath the window, and as he approached, he saw Jon lying on his back amidst the furs, his tiny face red and stained with tears, his fists scrunched up and shaking.

Cautiously, Ned gave the cradle a gentle push to stir it into rocking. The movement made the babe’s cries hiccup a moment, but then he resumed with the same vigour. “Shhh…” Ned whispered. He had no experience of babes, had no idea what ailments they suffered with, apart from supposing that they were much the same as those suffered by grown men and women. Jon appeared to be unhurt, and a quick glance around the room told him that there was no perceivable danger, so he leaned over the cradle and rubbed the child’s belly. Jon gulped in another breath, then howled again.

Torn between thinking that he should pick the babe up and paralysing fear born of his uncertain knowledge, Ned stared down a moment at Jon. Not for the first time in his life, he found himself wondering exactly how others saw him, and then what they would make of him now, standing frozen to the spot and rendered insensible by a squalling child. He shook his head, and picked the babe up, putting him on his shoulder as he had watched Wylla do. His hand naturally fell to Jon’s back and he began to rub gently.

Slowly, with steady steps, he walked around the room, rubbing and shushing. After just a few moments, the babe’s crying began to slow, and then finally stopped. In the sudden silence, a sense of achievement unlike any other filled Ned and he smiled to himself. “M’lord?” came a voice. He startled. Wylla was standing in the open doorway, a small glass vial held in her hand. She looked shocked and a little afraid, her fingers turning the vial over and over in nervy distraction. “I’m so sorry, m’lord, has he woken you? I went to the Maester to get him some chalky water – I think mayhaps he has colic.”

“I heard him crying and thought there must be something wrong,” explained Ned. “He does not normally cry.”

Wylla nodded. “No,” she agreed.

“I did not mean to intrude.” Prior to this night, he had left Wylla to manage Jon as only she could, and simply made sure that she wanted for nothing. The wet nurse came towards him and smiled when she saw that Jon had fallen asleep.

“He is asleep, m’lord,” she murmured. Ned blinked in surprise and angled his head to take in Jon’s tiny face, the tears now drying on his cooling cheeks. “You have the touch, it would seem. He would not quiet for me at all just now. I was getting right concerned.”

Ned shrugged, although he could not stop the feeling of pride that puffed through him. “Oh, I am sure I had little and less to do with it. Mayhaps he just had a bad dream.”

“Mayhaps,” agreed Wylla.

He moved to the cradle and slowly lifted the babe from his shoulder and laid the limp little body back amongst the furs and blankets. Jon shifted and made a quiet whimper, then blew out a breath through open lips and settled back to slumbering.

Wylla went to her rocking chair at the end of the cradle and sat down. “I will watch him now awhile,” she said softly. “Thank you for your help.” Ned nodded, but made no move to leave. Instead, he stood over Jon’s cradle and looked down at the babe as he slept. _Is Lyanna doing the same thing?_ He sighed, the now familiar sadness threatening to overcome him then. His sister’s words echoed again in his mind… _Take him back to Winterfell and love him as if he were yours. Don’t let them hurt him. And when he is grown, tell him about me and his father and how we loved him dearly. Promise me. Promise me, Ned._

 _It is such a cruelty,_ he thought as he stared. _This sweet, innocent child will live the life of a bastard and grow up never knowing that he is a prince._ _But it is safer that way. And then, one day, the time will come and I shall tell him all, and he can decide then what to do with the knowledge himself._

Wylla’s voice drew him from his thoughts: “M’lord?” she questioned. “He is soundly asleep now. You can return to your own bed.” She was looking at him with compassion and he supposed that she knew what he was thinking.

“Thank you, Wylla,” he said. “I did not mean to interrupt you.”

“It is no matter,” replied the wet nurse, and quirked an amused smile at him. “You were a great help, it seems.”

Ned returned her smile. With one last, lingering look at the babe asleep in the cradle, he turned and left and returned to his own chambers, thinking of dragons and blue roses and the things he would have to keep from this tiny boy. 


	6. CATELYN - A Second-Hand Love

CATELYN – A Second-Hand Love

 

Since the day she had arrived in Winterfell, Catelyn had not seen her husband’s bastard again. She wondered whether that was intentional, and whether he had ordered the wet-nurse to keep him out of her sight, or if it was mere happenstance. She knew where the boy’s nursery was, though, and sometimes she found herself standing outside the room, listening acutely for the sound of any activity within. She never heard anything though. The child was almost obscenely quiet – he hardly ever cried – which compared to Robb, who had seemed determined to show the world just how big his lungs were from the day he had been born, was quite perplexing for Catelyn. _Perhaps I am not so good a mother as even that hired wet-nurse_ , she thought to herself, in darker moments.

She occasionally passed the wet-nurse in the hallways, although they never spoke, and had learned from one of her handmaids that the young woman was called Wylla, that she was Dornish, and that she had travelled up from the South with Lord Eddard when he returned from the war. At first, she had considered whether it was _she_ who was the mother of the bastard, but the same handmaiden had convinced her she was not. Wylla had left her own young family in Dorne to come to Winterfell with the babe, she said, but as soon as the boy was weaned, she was returning home. That seemed strange to Catelyn. How Wylla could be the boy’s mother and leave him after giving him suck for so long was at odds with everything Catelyn knew about motherhood, so she had come to feel sure that she was nothing more than she appeared – a wet-nurse who had been hired to fulfil a needed role.  

Some of the Winterfell household whispered other things though. Catelyn’s maids had been the source of those rumours too. As they helped her dress and bathe, they told stories to her of how their new lord had fought against the great Kingsguard knight Ser Arthur Dayne and slain him in single combat, and how he had carried the man’s sword back to his home in Dorne and delivered it to his beautiful sister, the Lady Ashara Dayne. Catelyn had listened to all with curiosity. Could it be that this fair woman was the mother of his bastard?

It was a mystery to which Catelyn desperately wanted the answer for, but was afraid to ask the question.

Since she had arrived at Winterfell, Eddard Stark had kept himself busy with an apparently endless list of chores and duties. It seemed there were new bannermen at the castle near enough every day. Those houses whose lords had been lost in the war chose new heads and those new faces came to Winterfell to swear their oaths of allegiance as they had done for thousands of years. The new lord opened up his castle to every one of them – gave them meat and mead and accepted their offers of leal service with a pledge to honour and protect them in return. But throughout all, his face had been sombre, making Catelyn wonder if his heart was truly in his actions. And then she remembered that he had lost his brother, father and sister, all within a year, and felt guilty for judging him so.

It did not help, either, that since he had told her of his bastard, he had kept a cool but courteous distance from her. In two weeks, he had not visited her chambers and she began to have doubts about that too. Mayhaps he did not want to lie with her. Mayhaps instead he was missing the woman who had birthed his bastard son and it was her whom his heart ached for. Now that Catelyn had given him an heir, was she fated to become merely an ornament that he displayed whenever necessary? She had heard of lords who had wives such as that. It was a thought that filled her with terror. She knew that their marriage had been a second-hand thing, but the few days they had spent together at Riverrun a year ago had convinced her that he was not entering the arrangement with bad grace, and in his absence, she had even begun to think fondly of him. The thought that some chance love affair he had indulged in while on campaign had stamped on their tiny seedling of a marriage was something she did not wish to think on.

It took her several days to pluck up the courage, but finally she decided that she would press the matter. Wyman Manderly had come with his youngest son Wendel to say his oaths to his new lord and a feast had been put on for the occasion. Catelyn sat beside her husband at the high table and listened and smiled and did her best to talk with the huge Lord of White Harbor and his equally portly son. They were pleasant enough men, she realised as the night wore on, although both ate far more than was healthy for them.

When finally Lord Manderly retired to his bed, well-drunk and having let out the laces on his breeches twice, her husband made to bid his goodnights and take his own leave. “My lord,” said Catelyn, as he was rising from his seat. He stopped and turned to her. He looked tired and fraught and there was a frown between his eyes that spoke of tension.

“Yes?” He looked at her, his face unchanged. “Is there something wrong, my lady?”

“No, no… not exactly…” Her voice trailed off as her courage faltered, but then she swallowed and reined it back in again. “I just… I wondered if I had displeased you in some way?”

The frown between his eyes grew deeper and he shook his head. “Not at all.” He paused. “I thought perhaps you were angry with _me_.” For all his sombreness, in that moment, he seemed quite boyish and uncertain. Catelyn felt a rush of guilt flood through her for ever thinking ill thoughts of him. She shook her head. She did not trust herself to elaborate on her feelings about the matter in too much detail, so she simply said,

“I was, but no more.”

A slow smile twitched at the corners of his mouth and he replied, “I was worried that the damage was done and irreparable.”

Nodding, Catelyn watched as a group of guardsmen left the great hall, laughing loudly at some jape. The room was now nearly empty. Just a few final men sat at the tables, but most were too interested in their own conversations to afford their lord and lady any attention at all. “Eddard, I--”

“Ned,” he corrected. “I would have you call me by the name everyone who knows me uses.”

“Ned, then,” she agreed and smiled at him, and he smiled back.

They sat for a while longer then, talking of her conversations with Wyman Manderly, her impression of his son, and some matters of the household, before finally, he turned the talk towards Robb. He might have kept himself aloof from her these last few weeks, but he had not done so from Robb and it seemed he was already forming quite a bond with the boy. Now, when his father entered the room, Robb grinned a gummy smile and slapped his hands with impatience until he was picked up. It was a fact that had cheered her and convinced her that it might well be possible for her to build a true family in this cold and unforgiving place. “Maester Luwin weighed and measured him yesterday,” she told her husband, “and said he was a good size for a babe his age.”

“He is growing well,” confirmed Ned with a smile. “You are doing a fine job.”

With a blush, Catelyn accepted the compliment. She looked up at him. “Thank you for spending time with him, my lord.”

Ned frowned. “You sound surprised? Why would I not wish to spend time with my son?”

“Well,” she began, but then stopped. The reason did sound a little foolish, now that she thought about it, especially considering how he had shown himself to be over the course of the last ten days. “I have heard that some lords hire nurses for their children and do not trouble themselves with them.”

“That will not be the case in Winterfell. I would wish to know my children.”

Catelyn smiled, feeling comforted again. She drained the last mouthful of her wine, only then realising just how tired she really was. She smothered a yawn behind her cup, but Ned caught her doing so and said, “You are tired, my lady. You should retire to bed.”

A moment of indecision crossed her mind. _Should I ask him to accompany me?_ Everything she had ever been taught by her septa went against such an open, forthright invitation; it was not becoming of a lady to ask for such things. But just as he had noticed her yawn, so Ned noticed her indecision. “What is it?” he asked. Catelyn agonised a moment longer, then drew in a breath and replied,

“Why will you not lay with me, my lord?”

Underneath the dark bristles of his beard, Ned’s cheeks flushed with colour. He looked at the floor and scuffed his boot across the dusty boards. “Lay with you?” he said dumbly. His eyes flickered up to hers and she could see the uncertainty in their grey depths. She nodded.

“We are married now,” she reminded him. “And that is what is expected, is it not?”

“Expected… yes…” said Ned in a distant voice. A frown patterned across his face. He seemed to be thinking of something and fell silent for a while, and Catelyn thought that perhaps she had angered him. She kept her mouth shut, until finally he nodded his head and offered her a smile. “I am sorry, I have been remiss, my lady,” he continued. “I meant nothing by it. I… I thought that mayhaps you would not want to. That after what happened on the day you arrived, your trust in me might have been lost and that I would have to earn it back again.”

It took all her effort, but Catelyn swallowed her pride and replied, “Many lords father bastards.”

Ned’s face darkened a touch. “That is true, but… still… I am asking much of you, I know.” She said nothing to that. She could not say that he wasn’t. “I am sorry, my lady,” he finished. The look on his face was filled with regret then and she felt a little of the armour she had built up around her heart melt away in sympathy.

There was a pause as they both accepted the situation in which they found themselves, and then Ned held out his arm. “Shall we retire then?” he asked and offered her a gentle smile. Relief surged through her at his words and his smile and she stood and threaded her arm through his. Together, they left the hall and crossed the frosty courtyard and into the Great Keep. When they reached the door, he darted to open it for her and then stood smiling at her as she stepped over the threshold, and began to climb the stone steps. He followed her, a pace behind, until they arrived at her chambers.

The torches burned low in the wall sconces outside, casting a warm, orange glow along the corridor, and as she reached up to lift the latch on the door to her chambers, his hands snaked around her waist and she felt his lips gentle on her hair. He used his chin to push it aside, so he could kiss her neck. Catelyn smiled to herself as she pushed open the door, then turned to him, put her arms around him and kissed his own neck.

She backed into the room, blind, then broke away and began to light the candles. Ned stood and watched her. He was nervous, she could tell, as he pulled at the collar of his doublet and tunic and his eyes followed her as she moved. Finally, when the room was filled with soft yellow light, she went towards him again.

“My lady,” he murmured as her arms looped around his neck again. If this had been one of the dreams she had dreamed as a child, he would have called her by her name, but no, this polite term of address was somehow more _him_ , and more real than had he suddenly proclaimed her Cat or even Catelyn. He angled his head and touched his lips to hers, tentative and light, as if he was expecting her to back away the moment she felt him. To reassure him, she stood on her tip toes and pressed herself to him, pushing him as much as she dared to respond to her.

It seemed like a long, tense moment before she felt him shift his position ever so slightly, and then his mouth opened, just the barest touch, and he tilted his head and then they were kissing – truly kissing, like she and Lysa had done with Petyr when they cornered him in the Godswood.  

Catelyn felt his tongue slip into her mouth and touch hers, then he withdrew and she had to take his face in her hands in order to convince him once again that he was welcome. When she heard him moan, she knew he was caught.

His hands linked behind her back, then she felt his fingers working on the laces at the back of her dress. She smiled against his mouth. A part of her wished to encourage him, but at the same time, another part worried that if she opened her mouth and said anything, it might cause him to back off, so instead she kept silent, save for a tiny ‘mm’ sound.

That, it seemed, was enough. Ned’s fingers pulled at her dress quicker, and then he loosed it sufficiently to drag it over her shoulders and down. His hands were on her shoulders then, rubbing across the bare skin. Catelyn shivered. She began to untie his doublet in response. There was a brief moment of hesitation when she parted it and she tugged it down his arms, then he lifted her up, away from the dress that now pooled at her feet.

In another few moments, the rest of their garb lay upon the floor, and Ned was leading her back towards the bed. He kissed her again, this time with enthusiasm, and then he was above her and she felt his hardness pressing against her thigh. Suddenly she realised what he was waiting for. He wanted her consent. So, she looked up at him and nodded. He smiled in return and pushed into her.

As Catelyn felt him fill her up, she realised how this was a thing she had missed. They had lain together just twice while they were together at Riverrun, the first on their wedding night, then again on the night before he left to join Robert’s army. The second time had been more pleasant, and she had actually found herself enjoying their coupling. Now, as he started to move, each movement of his hips sent a delicious sensation rippling through her. She heard herself moan as he shifted his position and then Ned kissed her deeply, and all his reservations were gone.

It was but a few more moments and she felt him spilling his seed inside her. There had been something gathering inside her and the frustration came out in an unsatisfied groan, but before she knew it, Ned was rolling off her and his hand was sliding down her belly and dipping into her. There was a smile on his face as he touched her and set up a gentle rhythm that made her close her eyes and sigh into the pillows. “There you go,” he murmured as her body arched up off the bed and she shuddered.

When she peeled open her eyes, Catelyn saw that he had settled himself on his side, his head propped up with his hand, and was looking at her. She smiled. Something should be said, she felt, but she knew not what, so she just reached up with one hand and ran it softly along his bearded cheek. His eyes closed and he breathed out.

For a long moment, they were still, then he began to roll away and climb from the bed. “Stay,” Catelyn said. He paused, one leg already on the ground.

“My lady?”

“Please…”

The surprise was evident on his face. It was commonplace for lords and ladies to keep separate chambers and she supposed that Ned thought she would expect him to leave when they had finished. “You do not wish me to go?”

“No, I would have you stay with me.” She hoped she had not been too presumptuous, so added afterward, “My lord.”

Ned lay back down, but as he did so, she thought she saw a glimmer of pleasure on his face. He pulled the furs back over his nakedness and she slid her body alongside his. There was a brief moment where she felt tension in him, but then he relaxed. Quite unexpectedly, she found herself thinking once again of Jon Snow and the woman who had birthed him. Ned’s hesitance seemed at odds with a man who scattered his seed about, but yet the boy was already the image of him and there could be no doubt that Ned was the father. Catelyn thought of the whispers of her handmaids and of Ashara Dayne, the beautiful young woman who had thrown herself to her death from the highest tower of a castle called Starfall. Jealousy prickled at her and made her bold. She wanted to know who it was who had stolen Ned’s heart before she had even had a chance to get near to it. Were the stories her maids told her the truth of it?   

“Who is Jon’s mother?” she asked. “I have heard people speaking of Lady Ashara Dayne…”

In an instant, Ned’s face darkened and he surged upright once again, every muscle in his body tight and taut. Catelyn recoiled instinctively. “Never ask me about Jon,” he said, and his voice was harder than stone. “He is my blood and that is all you need to know.” He threw back the furs and stood, reaching for his shirt and donning it in one swift move. His breeches and boots followed next and then he turned to her. “And now I will learn where you heard that name, my lady.”

Catelyn stared at him, frozen by the cold in his eyes. Ned had always seemed such a gentle soul – but this was truly chilling. “Where did you hear that name?” Ned demanded. She swallowed; it felt as if her heart was in her throat.

“M-my handmaids,” she replied in a shaky voice. If Ned heard the fear in her voice, he did not acknowledge it, nor show any kind of compassion towards her obvious distress. Beneath his beard, his jaw worked as he drew in a breath through clenched teeth. Then, without a further word, he whirled about and disappeared. Catelyn jumped as the door slammed with an air of finality behind him, leaving her shocked and alone.

She did not sleep a wink that night. 


	7. EDDARD - Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This series has been on the shelf while I finished _in the shadow of your heart_. Hopefully, there will be more regular updates from now on!

EDDARD – Homecoming

 

Robert was muddied and bloodied, but he may as well have been covered in daisies for all he was aware. He had accepted Balon Greyjoy’s surrender, the battle was done, and his blood was up. Ned, on the other hand, was exhausted and aching and already longing for a hot bath and home. He, too, was bleeding from a dozen wounds but he knew he could count himself lucky that small cuts and bruises were all he had taken. There had been a couple of times when it had been a matter of an inch or two in his favour.

The Great Hall of Pyke was crowded with Baratheon loyalists, prisoners and men-at-arms, and keen to herald Greyjoy’s demise, Robert had seated himself on the Seastone chair and was holding court from there. He already had a flagon of ale in his hand. “Ned!” he cried when he caught sight of him standing near the back of the room. “Where have you been? Come over here and take a cup with me!”

The thought of ale was far from Ned’s mind, but he had never been able to refuse Robert anything, and so he pushed through the circle of people towards his king. When he was standing before Robert, a serving boy thrust a cup of dark brown ale into his hand. He took it but did not drink from it. “You have the air of a victor, Your Grace,” he said. “You will have to tell me the tale. I found myself several lines back from the thick of it.”

“Ah, it makes a grand tale! When I am back in King’s Landing, I shall charge the singers to tell it around the kingdom,” Robert exclaimed, sitting back in the chair and flushing with pride. Nothing pleased him better to hear of his own successes, whether they came in the bedroom or on the battlefield. To his right, stood the two men, Jorah Mormont and Thoros of Myr, who had distinguished themselves most in the battle, afforded places of high honour near to Robert himself. Ned acknowledged them both with a nod, but only Mormont smiled back.

“From our side it makes a grand tale, no doubt,” added Ned.

“Now that’s enough. I will not have you pouring your Northern gloom all over my celebrations, Stark. I intend to feast tonight.”

Ned sighed inside. A feast was the last thing he wanted, especially in the ruins of a castle battered by siege, amid the faces of a hundred sullen Ironborn. And then there was the matter of such a feast rubbing salt in the wounds of Balon Greyjoy, a task Robert would doubtless relish, but which Ned found somewhat distasteful. “Would it not be wiser, and more honourable, Your Grace, to withdraw to Seagard before we celebrate the victory? The journey is a short one and there is a strong westerly wind to speed our progress. We could be there by dusk.”

Robert was about to refuse, but then he glanced around the room and appeared to lay eyes for the first time upon the line of Ironborn prisoners standing with hands and feet bound along the far wall. With a reluctant grunt, he said, “Of course you’re right.” He turned to some of the men-at-arms who surrounded him. “We will need a ship readying for Seagard. See to it that these prisoners are questioned. If Balon Greyjoy wishes to barter their freedom with me, he can send me a raven on the morrow.”

He stood, threw the remainder of his ale down his throat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then handed the flagon to a thin boy with a thatch of dark hair and a nervous expression. The boy looked with wide eyes at his acquisition, not knowing what he was supposed to do with it now that he had been given it. “This is Theon Greyjoy, Ned,” Robert said and rested his large hand on the lad’s bony shoulder. “You are taking him as ward, as hostage, call it what you will, to ensure his father’s continued loyalty to the realm.”

“I am?” Ned was surprised. Robert had spoken of needing some kind of bargaining chip to hold the Ironborn to account, but he had thought that would mean monies or lands and titles, not Balon Greyjoy’s only surviving son and heir. He lowered his voice. “Robert, we should talk about this. I have not agreed to this.”

“There is nothing to talk about,” Robert replied. “I must needs ensure that Balon does not start getting more delusions of grandeur in the future, and now that his other two sons are dead, this one becomes rather more important to him.” He spoke as if the boy was not even beside him. “And I cannot take him to King’s Landing with me where he could act as a spy for his father. You must take him.”

Ned wondered what Catelyn would make of him bringing home another boy to raise alongside their own children – he doubted she would be pleased. “Robert, I--” he began.

“I have made my decision, Ned.” He straightened his cloak and turned away, ignoring Ned’s protestations. “Where’s the damned maester? I sent for him hours ago!” he bellowed and strode out of the room, two of his Kingsguard close behind him.

Once Robert was out of sight, Ned sighed and turned to the boy. “So you are Theon Greyjoy?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord.” Theon looked up at him with staring, frightened eyes. No wonder, thought Ned. He was just a child – no more than nine or ten years old, Ned guessed – and scrawny with it, and he had just seen his father’s rebellion crushed, his home besieged and taken and his brothers killed. It was enough to break the will of even the most courageous.

“It seems you will be coming with me to Winterfell. There will be room on one of the wagons for a small trunk of your belongings, so if you go now and hurry about it, you can pack up anything you wish to bring and I will have it taken with us.” He paused, wondering whether Theon thought himself too old for toys. “I have a son a little younger than you. His name is Robb. I hope you and he will find some common ground.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Theon, formally. Ned nodded. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to get much more than those three words from the boy this evening.

“Well, run along then,” he instructed. “The King will want to leave within the hour.”

Theon turned tail and darted away.

Ned returned to his men who were encamped outside the town of Lordsport. Thin columns of smoke still rose from some of the dwellings that had been set afire and sad-faced men and women picked through the ruins, salvaging what they could. It made for a sorry sight. The Stark host seemed fractious but when Ned gave the news that the king wished to disembark, the mood lifted. Apparently he was not the only one who wished to get back to familiar ground.

Once in his pavilion, his squire helped him remove his armour and Ned stripped to the waist and looked his wounds over. Most were entirely superficial, but there was one sword cut that had slipped beneath his pauldron and somehow cut right through his boiled leather gambeson to leave a gash clean across his left bicep. It was significant enough to warrant attention from a healer and so he sent for one. A beetling man with a bald head and thin, twitching fingers arrived and Ned sat and did his best not to grimace while he was cleaned up and the larger wound stitched together. The healer plied him with a tonic intended to speed healing and then left Ned sitting in his breeches and listening to the sound of the encampment being dismantled about him.

He donned a clean tunic but left off his plate and mail – there would be little need for it aboard ship – and headed down to the waterfront. A galley painted in the royal colours was now at anchor out in deeper water and a steady stream of gigs was running to and from it, loading up equipment and men.

He found Robert standing on what remained of the partially destroyed harbour wall, the wind licking in his black hair. He had changed too, but he still wore a padded gambeson and bright polished ringmail beneath his tunic. His mood seemed quieter than before and a moment passed in silence before he spoke. “So we are done and homeward bound.” Ned nodded. There were still many miles between here and Winterfell, but still he smiled at the thought. They had been away but a few months, though it had seemed like an age, and lately Ned had found himself thinking more and more of all he had left behind. Robert, however, looked melancholy.

“Is there something the matter, Your Grace?” asked Ned.

 “No, no, I am only tired and in need of a strong drink.” Robert huffed out a sigh. “Nobody ever told me that keeping a throne was harder than winning the damn thing.”

Ned frowned. Robert had been more than five years king now but already he looked tired of it – wrinkles had begun to show around his eyes and heavy drinking had given his skin a sallow tone. But despite his confession of weariness, he did not seem eager to be leaving. Ned could hardly blame him – the politics, intrigues and heat of King’s Landing could stifle even the best of men. “You have a son,” Ned reminded him.

“Aye, and his mother too,” said Robert sourly.

And there was the rub. Robert still grieved for Lyanna and somewhere along the way he had idolised her into an almost mythic figure of perfection such as she had never actually been. It saddened Ned to think that whatever happiness he might have found in his marriage had been lost before the vows had even been said.

A boy – one of Robert’s squires – came running up then and interrupted their talk. “Your Grace, the galley is ready. Would you wish to disembark?”

“I wish to get drunk,” Robert declared. “Come on, Ned, let’s you and I get the wine flowing and the singers singing and remember the good old days!”   

There was nothing Ned could say to that. He followed the king down the steps of the harbour wall and onto an awaiting gig.

That night Robert had indeed kept the wine flowing, and the next night, and the night after that. From Seagard they went on, crossing the Green Fork at the Twins, stopping at inns and taverns along the way, until finally, they met with the King’s Road south of the Neck. It was to be their parting place, but before Robert would allow Ned to be on his way, he insisted on a final night of drinking and feasting at the Inn of the Green Man.

So that was how Ned Stark found himself sitting in a furnace-hot room beside his king, with sweat dribbling down his back and a half-drunk flagon of ale on the table in front of him, thinking of how he could sneak away unnoticed. Robert had picked up a singer on the road and the man was strumming valiantly at a lute and waxing lyrical about war hammers and antlered helms, while a dark-haired girl, likely a whore, dandled herself in the king’s lap in time to the rhythm. Robert’s hands were rubbing over her arse and up her back as he sat back in his seat and watched her. Despite the fact that Robert had forbidden him to leave and continue on north, Ned thought that he may as well not have been there for all that Robert was aware of his presence.

The door opened and another girl came in and cast a provocative smile in his direction. Rather than meet her gaze, Ned looked down at the remaining contents of his cup. The singer, sensing his tale of Robert’s victory on the Trident was falling on deaf ears, changed his tune. “Western wind, when will thou blow?” he sang instead. “The small rain down can rain. Gods, if my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again!”

Ned sighed. _If only_ , he thought. He had done his best to banish any thoughts he had had of Catelyn during the campaign, having realised not twenty leagues from Winterfell that he was missing her already, but for just a moment, he let his mind stray northwards. He wondered what his lady was doing. It was dark outside, so perchance she was abed, or preparing for bed, brushing out the day’s tangles from her hair. He did so love to watch her do that. When she had finished, she would set the brush back down on her dressing table, and then let her head fall back, shaking out the coppery lengths, and Ned would do his best not to make a sound.

A chair scraped harshly against the flagstone floor and he blinked back to the present. Robert was climbing from his seat, his eyes glassy with drink, and the two girls were dripping off him, giggling. _He is retiring_ , realised Ned, _and he is taking them with him_.

And indeed it was true. Without so much as a glance in Ned’s direction, Robert stumbled out of the door and disappeared. As the door banged closed, the singer stopped abruptly. “My lord?” he questioned, looking at Ned with an uncertain expression.

“You may go,” he told him. “Thank you for your efforts. I am sure the king will see that you are duly rewarded on the morrow.”

With a nod, the singer stood and slung his lute onto his back and then Ned was alone. There was little point in remaining, so slowly he too got to his feet and made his way up to his room. It was simple and sparsely furnished, but there was a featherbed and a comfortable pillow. He stripped off his garb, folding it to keep out the worst creases, and then sank naked into the bed. It was a mild night, and with the window ajar, the temperature was not so different from Catelyn’s chambers. But there was no Catelyn. He lay on his back for a while, staring up at the ceiling and thinking of her. Just before he had left, she had come to him to tell him she was with child again. She would surely be showing now, in the rich bloom of beauty she had seemed to swell into when she had carried Sansa. It was hard to accept that he was missing that.

He wanted to put his hands on her belly and feel the babe move, he wanted to rub her back and fuss after her, even though he knew she hated it, and he wanted to lie with her again and…

Through the wall, there came a cry of pleasure and then, much to Ned’s chagrin, the sound of a creaking bed started up. Making a face, he pushed his head further into the pillow and groaned. It was going to be a long night.

The next morning, Robert was late to rise, and when he did, he looked like all seven of the hells. Great dark shadows were under his eyes and he sat at the breakfasting table staring distastefully at the food on his platter, silent and brooding. Ned said not a word either, knowing Robert would not take kindly to being told that late nights and excessive drinking were the culprits of his poor health, and instead began dreaming of the ride home, of snowy moorlands and cold mists that sank into your bones.

Gradually, though, Robert’s mood seemed to improve, and once he’d eaten a little, he turned to Ned and observed, “You are very quiet, my friend. What are you thinking of?”

Ned almost did not answer, but then with a wistful smile, he confessed, “Home.”

Robert chuckled low in his throat. “Ah. The frozen North and the lovely Catelyn, no doubt,” he said. There was a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Ned shifted uncomfortably in his seat – he misliked talking about his feelings, most of all with Robert who seemed to regard the idea of Ned having feelings at all as something worthy of jest.

“Yes…” he admitted. “I will be pleased to return to Winterfell.” He paused. “I have missed my family… and my lady wife.”

“As would I if she were mine.”

At that, Ned looked up and met his friend’s eyes. For once, there was no jest in his expression. “You are a lucky man, Ned Stark,” said Robert. He climbed from his chair and slapped Ned good-naturedly on the back. “You should thank the gods for that, at least.”

It took Ned a moment to think of a reply to that. “I do,” he said in honesty. “Every day.”

The king grunted, as if he still didn’t quite believe Ned’s assertion. “When will I see you again, my friend?”

“I do not know,” Ned replied. It was a long way from Winterfell to King’s Landing, and Ned had little love for travel or the capital. “But you are always welcome in Winterfell, Your Grace.”

“One day, Stark, one day.” Standing, Ned embraced the man he had walked beside since they were boys.

“I wish you fair weather on your ride home,” he said as they broke apart.

“As do I, although I suspect your idea of fair weather and mine own will be somewhat different!” Robert laughed. “Oh, and give my regards to your lady wife, and your children.”

Ned couldn’t quite bring himself to say the same to Robert, but he nodded and smiled nonetheless. The king regarded him thoughtfully but did not acknowledge Ned’s lack of comment. Instead, he headed out of the door and into the small flagged courtyard busy with activity. One of his squires was holding his horse. Robert strode towards the animal and grabbed up the reins. He swung into the saddle. Ned waited whilst he adjusted his seat and then threw his cloak over the horse’s quarters. “It would be good to see you in King’s Landing, Ned,” he said. “Bring Catelyn and the children.”

“Your Grace,” said Ned with head bowed. He would not promise something he could not guarantee.

With a nod, Robert put his heels into his horse and trotted out of the gates and turned southwards, followed by Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Preston Greenfield and the rest of his party. Ned watched them go. When the sound of hooves had faded into the distance, he turned back to the courtyard and looked on the remaining men. Most of the Stark host had dispersed the previous day, heading off towards the North to their villages and towns and castles and holdfasts, leaving just the men of Winterfell camped outside the inn. Jory Cassell came towards him.

“My lord, your horse is ready and the camp is dismantled. We are ready to leave whenever you wish you go.”

“Let us be on our way then, Jory. I, for one, cannot wait to be home again.”

Jory smiled. “Home would be good,” he agreed.      

Ned returned the smile. It would be a long ride from here, but at least he would be heading in the right direction.

It was three weeks later when they finally crossed the wooden bridge over the White Knife and for the first time in nearly three moons, Ned caught sight of Winterfell on the horizon. The great grey walls of the castle were so small that it seemed no more than a child’s toy from this distance, but it was there and the thought of what lay within filled Ned with joy. He was saddle-sore and weary, but he would soon be home. Beside him, Jory Cassell, who had ridden in quiet companionship the last few miles, said, “There is Winterfell, my lord.”

But Ned was deep in thought. His mind had already crossed the drawbridge and the day was over and he was taking Catelyn in his arms and kissing her and peeling off her gown. He could see her standing there in her chambers, clear as day, her blue eyes sparking, her lips red from kissing. Her hands tugged him nearer and she began to unlace him and pull his hardness from his breeches.

And then, as is the way with dreams, he blinked and the scene changed, and suddenly he found himself staring down at her, lying on the bed beneath him. He shifted down her body, and pressed soft kisses onto her ribs, her swollen belly, and each one of her hips in turn. Glancing up, he saw her fists clenching and palming the sheet beneath her and he smiled as he laid his mouth on her sex. She was wet and slippery and he licked gently, firmly, slowly. A soft sound uttered from her as he put his hands beneath her and lifted her up, the better to get closer.   

Another sound, then, and it was not one of satisfaction. It sounded rather like someone clearing their throat.

Ned shook his head and the fantasy vanished. “My lord?” came Jory’s voice and Ned shifted in his saddle. He looked down and realised that his arousal was plain to see, pressing against the material of his breeches. Mortified, he grabbed the edge of his cloak and swept it around himself to hide the evidence. He glanced sideways at Jory. The young soldier was not looking at him, but instead was smirking at his horse’s withers and Ned knew that he had seen enough. He cursed himself quietly.

“Yes, Jory?” he said, attempting to keep his tone light.

“My lord, Winterfell is on the horizon.”

Ned fixed his eyes on the sight of the castle and avoided looking at his companion. “Indeed it is. I had seen already. I was…” he stopped, considering his next words. Jory had shown himself to be the most loyal of men in this campaign, and Ned knew him to be both intelligent and worthy. Surely he could confide in him also? But he was spared the indignity of explaining himself as Jory replied,

“You were thinking of the Lady Catelyn, my lord. I understand.” Ned flushed again, feeling utterly ridiculous. Jory, however, seemed either to not notice or not care and continued, “It has been a long absence. Those of us who have no wives can satisfy our needs with any number of girls, but you have marriage vows to keep.”

That was true enough, although even had there been no vows in place, Ned had never been one for the wenching and whoring Robert had got up to in their youth, the likes of which he knew Jory was referring to. The idea had always made him feel uncomfortable. He nodded. “Yes, it has been a long absence,” he agreed and left it at that. He put his heels into his horse and upped the pace. The horses were not yet too tired and if they galloped the last few miles, they could be riding through the gates in no time at all.

His destrier picked up and the ground began to roll away beneath him. Winterfell grew larger and more impressive with every stride and soon they were within earshot. One of the riders blew on a horn to alert the guardsmen to their presence so they had chance to lower the drawbridge that spanned the moat. Ned heard the answering shout in return.

As they came up to the gates, Ned slowed his mount to a trot. The horses’ hooves echoed on the drawbridge as they crossed over. And then they were passing under the portcullis and Ned caught sight of two eager little boys standing waiting – one auburn-haired, the other dark. Huge grins were plastered on their faces and both of them fairly bounced on the spot as Ned slowed his horse to a walk and then halted.

Catelyn was there too, with Sansa held on her hip and her expression bright with joy. The sight of her was like relief itself and he dismounted and strode towards her. “Cat,” he said with a sigh. She looked softer around the edges than when he had left, a little extra weight on her hips and breasts and face, and then her belly, swollen now quite obviously with child, was clear to see through the fabric of her dress, but to Ned she was as beautiful as she had ever been. “Oh, it is good to be home.” Catelyn smiled at that, a faint blush colouring her cheeks, and adjusted her hold on Sansa, who cooed in delight. He let his daughter wrap her hand around his finger, and then reached out to stroke the soft down of her cheek. He had worried that his youngest would not remember him when he returned, but it seemed that his fear had been misplaced. “Now then, little girl,” he greeted. He bent to plant a kiss on her crown. “You’ve grown well while I have been away.” Sansa burbled again.

He heard the boys elbowing one another and Robb’s hissed reprimand to Jon of “Stand up straight!” and so he turned to face them. Robb had his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders thrown backwards and his chin up, as good a stance as a six-year-old could manage. Jon was trying to copy him, but wasn’t being quite as successful. Ned smiled. It was touching to see their efforts to do what they thought would please him and how well they got on together. He hoped Robb would accept the boy Theon as readily as he had Jon. “Father,” said Robb. He met Ned’s gaze.

“Come here, lad,” he said. He leaned down and grabbed his son under the arms and lifted him up, spinning him around. Robb laughed out loud, his false formality vanished with his father’s unexpected action. When Ned set him back down, he was breathless and grinning. Jon Snow stood perfectly still until Ned looked towards him, leaned over and ruffled his fingers through the boy’s dark thatch of unruly hair. “Is it good to see me then?” he asked them both.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Robb’s voice was rushed with excitement and he immediately began beseeching Ned to spend time with him, explaining with pride at how his swordplay had improved in Ned’s absence. But although Ned had missed the boys greatly and playing at swords with them in the yard was something he had thought of again and again on the ride home, he was also exhausted and didn’t think he’d be able to even lift a wooden sword, let alone brandish it to block the boys’ parries and thrusts.      

There was also the small matter of a feast to organise for the men who had accompanied him on campaign. And then there was Catelyn, whose embrace he had yet to feel and who would doubtless have many a tale to tell him. Patiently, he explained this to Robb, assuring him that they would play together on the morrow, and then sent them away.

Once they had disappeared, he turned to Catelyn, who had been standing quietly and patiently by his side while he had greeted the boys. “Welcome home, my lord,” she said with a gentle smile.

She looked so beautiful in that moment, with Sansa resting her cheek on her shoulder and the wind lifting the coppery lengths of her hair that Ned could not resist the urge to kiss her. He took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. It was a much more open display of affection than anything he had indulged in before, but the relief at being back within these familiar walls, with his family and his love at his side was threatening to overwhelm him. It mattered not that half his men were still in the courtyard with them. He simply wanted nothing more than to feel her in his arms again.

Catelyn made a soft sound in her throat and he reluctantly released her, taking a step back and noticing that her cheeks were pink. He almost smiled, but the surprise in her eyes made him feel suddenly self-conscious and he glanced about. Most of the men he had ridden through the gates with had drifted off to their various tasks, but a few were still in the courtyard and as he looked, they did their valiant best not to seem too taken aback. Ned ducked his head. “I am sorry, my lady, that was… inappropriate,” he said.  “I just… I have missed you more than I thought I would.”

He was half expecting her to accept his apology and step back, but instead she stepped into his body again, stood on her tip-toes and kissed his cheek. With a quiet voice, she whispered in his ear, “As have I, my love.”

Ned smiled, cheered beyond measure by her words. The change in them had been coming slowly these past few years, but it had been ceaseless in its forward motion, and by the time Ned had bid her goodbye, he had been sure that he loved her. As he stood in the Winterfell courtyard and beheld her he knew that it was more even than that. He held out his arm to her and she took it. “Thank you for coming to greet me,” he said.

“It has been a long few months.”

Indeed it had, thought Ned, but he was home now and he hoped never to have to leave again.  


	8. Stolen Moments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was more of a writing exercise for me than anything else. I wanted to include an Arya chapter in Of Dragons... but didn't, and then when I started writing it for this, it kind of morphed into a _I wonder how I would do writing from some other POVs?_ Robb and Sansa were especially difficult for me, so I hope I've captured them successfully. 
> 
> Also, originally I said this would be ten chapters, but I'm finishing it here because I've got another couple of bunnies breeding happily in my head at the moment and I really want to get on and write them while they're still compelling me.

 

SANSA

 

Her mother was always gentle with the hairbrush, more so than any of Sansa’s maids, so when Lady Catelyn came to her chamber that evening at bedtime, Sansa eagerly presented her with the brush and begged her to comb out the tangles left by the intricate braids she had worked into her hair.

They had been hosting the Glovers from Deepwood Motte for the past three days and as Lord Galbart, his brother and his brother’s new wife were set to depart on the morrow, Lord Eddard had put on a feast in Winterfell’s Great Hall. There had been a dozen different dishes, dancing and even a singer. Sansa and Robb had been allowed to stay up past their normal bedtime and drink wine and water. It had been a wonderful evening. Galbart Glover was clearly a man her father admired, for they had spent most of the night talking together. Robett, Lord Galbart’s younger brother and heir, was just as amiable, and after dancing with his wife, he had taken Lady Catelyn’s hand and twirled her about with a confidence that seemed at odds with his height and stature.

In her nine years, Sansa had never seen her mother dance. Her father would almost always stay in his seat during a feast and so it came as a surprise to Sansa to learn that her mother was both graceful and elegant as she followed Robett Glover’s steps around the floor. Lord Eddard had watched the scene with a soft smile on his face, his eyes never wavering from her lady mother, but when the song ended and another began, he had not climbed from his seat to take her from Robett Glover.

The sight of her father sitting easily in his seat whilst his wife was entertained by another man had seemed all wrong to Sansa. In the songs, the knights were always passionate, defending the honour of their ladies whenever it was challenged. And they never endured other men turning their affections towards their ladies either. Her father, though, had not seemed even slightly concerned that it was Robett Glover who was making her mother laugh out loud as he spun her around and around and not him. So, when her lady mother came to her chambers at the end of the night and took up the hairbrush, Sansa felt compelled to ask.

“Why doesn’t Father treat you like a lady?” she asked as she sat on the stool before the fire and her mother stroked the brush gently through her hair.

Lady Catelyn chuffed at that, stopped and plucked a few stray hairs from the brush and cast them into the fire. “Of course he treats me like a lady. Whatever gave you the idea that he does not?”

“Well, he didn’t dance with you tonight. He let Robett Glover dance with you instead. He never brings you wildflowers or carries you across the mud either. And he’s never had a song written about you.”

“No…” Her mother’s voice trailed away. She set the brush back down on Sansa’s nightstand and stood back. “Your father’s not always like the knights in your songs, Sansa--”

“But why?”

Lady Catelyn sighed. Sansa knew she was pushing the matter and that perhaps it was not wise, but her curiosity had been piqued and she wanted to think that the man she called her father was like the men she admired in the stories and songs.

Her lady mother turned to her and Sansa was surprised to see that she was smiling and her eyes were faraway. “Sweetling, when you are older you will understand that love isn’t always shown with grand gestures like it is in the songs you love. Sometimes it is the little things that show it the most.” She reached out and ran her hand over Sansa’s hair. “Your father loves me, and I know it, just as he knows that I love him. And that is all that matters.”

Silenced by her mother’s response, Sansa looked down at her lap, feeling contrite. Her mother’s words had been firm but there was honesty in them. Of course her parents loved one another.

Lady Catelyn set down the brush and laid her hands on Sansa’s shoulders. “Your father has done his share of grand gestures though, Sansa, though they may not be the kind of thing you have heard about in the songs,” she said. “He built me a sept for one, and he has been at my side for every birth from you to Rickon, and that is no small thing for a man.”

Sansa was not impressed by that. Septs were buildings, and buildings were dull, and childbirth was a woman’s business, or so Septa Mordane had told her. Such things were not mentioned in the songs. For a moment, her mother seemed to be considering Sansa’s obviously unconvinced expression, but then she smiled wistfully and stepped back. “Sansa, you are too quick to judge, child… I don’t suppose you noticed how the whole time I was dancing with Robett Glover, your father’s eyes never strayed from me?”

That made Sansa pause. She remembered the way Lord Eddard had watched her lady mother as she danced with eyes as soft as mist. She nodded. “He watched you the entire time.”

“He did. And that is often his way, sweetling. Where other men would use words, your father uses looks and… more private ways of telling his feelings.”

“Oh…” It was hard to keep the disenchantment from her voice then, as she stood, smoothed out her nightgown, and climbed into her bed. Her mother seemed happy, though, so Sansa presumed that the things she spoke of were enough for her. But she couldn’t help the thought that she would want something more… extraordinary… than that.

It was cool in her chamber, so she tugged the blankets and furs up to her chin and bid her mother goodnight. As she closed her eyes, she tried to imagine her father presenting her lady mother with a rose, or a bejewelled ring, but the picture simply would not come to her mind. In its place, she could not shake the image of him smiling softly from across the room as he watched her dance with another man.  

 

ROBB

 

It was a bright and clear morning, just an hour after dawn, and the sky was filled with the airy white clouds of summer, tinted pink by the sunrise. There had been no rain for a fortnight and so the ground was firm and dry beneath Robb’s pony’s hooves. His father had roused him from his sleep just before daybreak, and Robb had stumbled out of bed to don riding leathers and long boots, ready for the promised hawking excursion to the river.

He was desperate to try out the new bird – a magnificent gyrfalcon Dallett the falconer had been training since it was a chick. It was a beautiful animal, covered in mottled white and brown plumage, with a curved yellow beak and eyes that shone like obsidian. Robb had watched Dallett and his son Tomar training the bird for nearly a year, fascinated, and when the falconer had announced to Lord Eddard that the bird was ready for a hunt, he had begged and badgered his father every day for a week.

Finally, his father found time amid his schedule to arrange a hunt and Robb had gone to bed the night before filled with nervous excitement. He knew the amount of time that had been invested into the bird and he was keen to see the product of Dallett and Tomar’s efforts.

They rode to the riverbank and then staked the horses beneath the treeline and went the rest of the way on foot. The banks were spongy with moss and ankle-high grass and as they walked, Robb heard the soft plops of voles disappearing into the water at the sound of their footsteps. A solitary heron stalked imperiously through the reeds, looking this way and that, the feathered crown upon its head cresting above the bulrushes. His father had been silent the entire ride down, but now he turned to Robb and the assistants Dallett had in his employ. He gave instructions to wade out into the shallows and beat the rushes to startle whatever quarry they could find. Robb had a stick of ash given to him by Dallett and he eagerly slid down the bank into the slow-moving water to begin his task.     

Behind him, the falcon was fighting against the jesses that held it to Dallett’s bleached hide glove, the bells on its legs jingling faintly. It was ready to go. Robb and the other boys formed a line and began to move forwards, beating at the rushes with their sticks. They had not gone more than thirty paces when suddenly a pair of mallard ducks took off a few yards in front of them with startled trumpeting cries. He heard Dallett’s voice call out and he turned quickly to see the action. The falconer slipped the knot that tied the jesses to his glove and the bird launched itself into the air, its wings beating and beating until it was airborne.

Robb felt the whoosh as the great bird swooped over his head, banked upwards and wheeled onto the ducks. As its talons grasped into the trailing one, it somersaulted in the air and came blundering downwards, landing on the bank with a flurry of feathers and flapping wings. Dallett and his father went running towards the downed pair, Dallett’s whistle sounding out and his lure circling.

Eager to see what had happened, Robb clambered up the bank and raced to where Dallett was now securing the falcon to his glove and his father was tying a leather line onto one of the dead duck’s legs. “What did you think then?” his father asked when he heard Robb come to a halt beside him.

“It’s so fast! And the way it turned in the air…”

His father smiled. “It was very impressive, wasn’t it? Dallett has done a fine job bringing him on.” Robb nodded enthusiastically. There was a thin trickle of blood coming from the duck’s open beak, but other than a little ruffling of the breast, it appeared unharmed. The falcon had not stripped a single feather.  

“Can I carry it home?”

“If you would like, but do you not want to go for a little longer? The bird is still fresh, Dallett tells me, and would benefit from another few launches.”

And so they continued on, a further half a dozen launches yielding another brace of ducks and three decent-sized wood pigeons. By the time they were done, it was nearing midday and they headed back to Winterfell as the clouds grew darker above them, threatening rain. Theon came galloping up from behind them as they approached the castle, his cloak billowing out behind him and his cheeks turned rosy by the buffeting wind. He caught sight of the three ducks and the wood pigeons they had landed and grinned at Robb. “So that fancy bird did its job, did it?”

“It was brilliant,” Robb gushed. He was still thrumming with excitement. Theon, however, didn’t seem to be that impressed, and as they crossed the drawbridge and entered the courtyard, he was much more interested in a flaxen-haired serving girl who chanced to walk across his path, casting him a beckoning look over her shoulder. Robb watched him smile wolfishly at the girl and then slide down from his mount to follow her.

Lately, Theon had been spending a lot of time with some of the girls who worked in Winterfell’s kitchens or disappearing off alone on his horse only to return hours later with a huge smile and grass stains on his breeches. Robb had not dared to ask him what he had been doing, but really that was because he already knew.

His eyes followed Theon as he left the yard. He had offered to find Robb a girl for his thirteenth name day, and although Robb had declined in shock, he had more recently found himself thinking again. He was deep in thought when he heard his father call his name from behind him and he startled and turned around. “Yes, Father?” he said.

Lord Eddard was standing beside his destrier, having handed over the reins to a stable boy, and was watching Robb with a hard look on his face. Robb met his gaze, wondering at the sudden sternness that had draped itself over the light-hearted mood his father had shown down by the river. “Come with me, son,” he instructed.

Robb followed him as he led the way up to his solar, pushed open the great oaken door and bid Robb to enter. He sat himself in his chair behind his desk, then almost immediately got to his feet again and sighed. Robb stood on the other side of the desk, his fingers twitching, feeling uncertain. A long moment of silence hung. Finally, his father cleared his throat and then turned back to face him. “Robb, I want you to know that I do not wish you to use Theon Greyjoy as an example when it comes to women.” His voice was firm, but not unkind.

Rushing to defend himself, Robb stammered, “I, I wasn’t… I haven’t, Father.”

“Good,” said his father. “I would not have any son of mine treating a lady with such disrespect. Do you understand what I mean?”

Robb stared. He thought he did, but when he opened his mouth to reply, no sound came out and he blushed frantically. Much to his relief, his father filled in his awkward silence. “When you bed a lady, son, you should know of the possibility of getting a child on her and what repercussions that might have for you and for the lady, but also for the child. You are old enough to understand all that, but sometimes with youth and enthusiasm comes foolishness.” He paused, his eyes growing distant a moment. “My father used to say that a man who scatters his seed about will spend his life pulling up weeds. You do not want to be that kind of man for it makes naught but trouble.”

“I wouldn’t,” Robb assured him. Although Theon’s exploits were indeed interesting, Robb also found himself looking on with a kind of distaste. “I swear, Father.”

His father nodded. “I believe you, Robb. I think your mother and I have raised you well and I hope that I set a good and honest example for you to follow. Do not think that I am speaking to you and not to Theon. I have expressed my discontent with his behaviour, but it seems that my words have fallen on deaf ears. I simply wanted to make sure that you heard me well.”

“Yes, Father.”

That evening, at dinner, Robb found himself looking down at Theon on the benches while he sat at the high table. His face was ruddy with drink and his eyes were flicking backwards and forwards from Lord Eddard to his meal and then occasionally towards the same golden-haired serving girl he had followed from the courtyard, as if he simply couldn’t help himself. The girl was pretty enough, with a snub nose and a dainty chin, but she was hardly a beauty. Theon seemed to find her compelling though. As the meal was served, Robb caught him mouthing something to her and when she turned beet red, he laughed loudly and elbowed the men sitting beside him.

Robb looked away and noticed his father watching him. Lord Eddard’s jaw was clenched and his eyes were steely.

The ducks they had caught earlier in the day had been dipped in honey and roasted; Robb took another helping and absorbed himself in eating for a moment. When he dared to look back up, his father appeared to have been diverted. He was deep in conversation with his mother, leaning slightly toward her, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair. Whatever they were talking about was clearly making her smile, and Robb found himself wondering what it was. His father was right, he knew – his parents _had_ set a good example of a marriage. They always seemed to have time for one another, even when both were busy with other tasks, and Robb had long thought that they just, well, fit together.

He watched them on and off throughout the rest of the evening, deliberately averting his eyes from Theon and whatever he was doing. They talked a lot, but were quiet aplenty too and easy in their silences. Once, his mother threw back her head and laughed, and then his father’s frame shook with a restrained chuckle. There were occasional touches on forearms and knees too, and the whole time his father was diligent with keeping his mother’s cup filled with water or wine.

By the time Lord Eddard called the end of the meal, Robb realised that Theon had left with his serving girl and he had not even noticed that he had gone. His father stood and took his mother’s hand with a quiet ‘my lady’, and as he did so cast a last glance in Robb’s direction, caught him looking and smiled at him, as if to say, _good, I’m pleased._

        

BRAN

 

The fire crackled in the hearth and his father supped from a cup of warm milk the same as Bran had just finished. His feet were resting on a low footstool and he had taken off his riding leathers so that Bran could feel the gentle motion of his breathing through the thin material of his woollen shirt. He was curled on his father’s lap, his feet pushed into the space between his father’s thigh and the padded high-backed armchair in which they sat. His head rested against Lord Eddard’s shoulder.

But it was not Lord Eddard who held him. It was Father. And this was Father at his softest and most affectionate. He had taken off his lord’s face. Bran snuggled against his chest and begged, “Tell me a tale from the Age of Heroes, Father. Something about Symeon Star-Eyes or Brandon the Builder.”

His father smiled down at him. He took another sip from his cup of milk, then began, “Did I ever tell you about Garwen the Wolf?”

“No… who’s he?”

“He was Brandon the Builder’s second son. You know his eldest son, who became King Theon?” Bran nodded and his father continued, his voice taking the quiet lilt of story-telling, “Well, during this time, direwolves were common south of the Wall and they roamed freely in the Wolfswood, but the men of the North feared them. These wolves were huge and when winter came, they would take crofters’ sheep and stalk through their villages, frightening the folk who lived there.

“Mostly, though, they stayed in their dens and well away from Winterfell. Garwen Stark, however, was a quiet boy, and he liked to ride through the Wolfswood and disappear on long treks that would last for days. One day he was doing just that when a direwolf came out of the trees and frightened his horse. Garwen was thrown from the saddle. His horse bolted, leaving him alone, without a mount, and many miles from Winterfell, faced with a terrifying gigantic wolf. It was a young beast, its fur still dark as night, and it was lean and hungry. Garwen was only a boy, and he became frightened by the wolf’s presence, believing that it was going to attack him as it had attacked his horse.”

The sound of the door opening made Bran lift his head and he saw his mother enter the room. She smiled and came to stand behind them, resting her arms on the back of the chair they were sitting in. Lord Eddard glanced up, but barely missed a beat as she leaned over and kissed them both on the tops of their heads. “But the great direwolf did not attack. So Garwen summoned all his courage and drew his sword, shouting loudly in an attempt to scare it.”

“Did the direwolf run off? Or did it bite him dead?” asked Bran. Behind him, his mother chuckled softly.   

“Oh, no, it did neither.”

“What did it do?”

“It grabbed Garwen’s sword in its mouth and it flung it away into the undergrowth.” Bran drew in a gasping breath, but his father continued nonetheless. “Garwen let out a scream, because a direwolf is a huge beast and now he had no weapon with which to defend himself. He was only a boy, you see, and he believed himself in terrible danger.”

His father paused and Bran looked up at him, frowning. “The wolf didn’t want to kill him, did he?” he said slowly.

Smiling, Lord Eddard shook his head. “No, it did not.”

“What happened then?”

“The wolf followed Garwen for many hours of walking, until it came to a river that had almost burst its banks and where the water was running very fast indeed. The bridge that crossed it was flooded in the middle too but there was no other way around for miles and it was growing dark. Garwen knew that he had to cross if he was to have any hope of making it back to Winterfell before nightfall, so he stepped onto the bridge. The direwolf growled and jumped in front of him. Garwen knew now that the beast meant him no harm and so he tried to push past, but the wolf would not let him pass. As he stepped back off the bridge, resigning himself to having to walk around the obstacle, there was a terrible creak and the bridge collapsed completely.”

“The wolf saved him!” cried out Bran.

“It did, but it could not save itself. When the bridge caved in, the direwolf was swept down river with the torrent.”

“Oh…” Bran could not help the tone of disappointment in his voice. He had wanted the wolf to stay with Garwen.

“Garwen returned to Winterfell the long way around and when he told his father about what had happened, King Brandon decided that to honour the direwolf’s courage, he would paint a likeness of it upon his shield.” Lord Eddard looked down at him. “And so the first direwolf sigil was made.”   

“That’s a good story,” said Bran. “Is it really true?”

“I am sure parts of it are true enough,” replied his father. “But tales grow in the telling, as well you know.”

“How did the wolf know that the bridge was dangerous though?”

“Ah, well, this is where it all gets a little… enhanced. Old Nan will tell you that the direwolf was actually a wizard who had turned himself into a wolf, but we know that sort of thing cannot be, don’t we?”

Bran said nothing. He often listened to Old Nan’s tales and she always seemed so convinced of the truth behind her words that she could be very believable. She might tell fantastic stories of Princes and wildlings, and of the Others, but when she told them, Bran’s imagination came alive. The idea of a man in the form of a direwolf was one of her more realistic creations. A yawn snuck its way out. The warmth coming from the fire and his father’s body was comforting so Bran rested his head against his head against his father’s chest, and feeling the pull of sleep, closed his eyes.

A long moment of quiet stretched and lasted.

“You should take him to bed, my love,” said his mother and the sound of her voice almost made Bran start. He had forgotten she was there at all.

“I will.”  There was a pause and Bran felt his father brace himself as if preparing to lift him.

“Are you glad of him?” His mother’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Glad?” his father replied. “I am glad of all our children, Cat. Both those we already have and the ones yet to come.”

With half an eye open, Bran saw his father lift his head up to smile at his mother, who then leaned down and kissed him on the lips, lingering a moment longer than she would normally. She cupped his face with one hand and then stroked his bearded cheek.

“Let me take him to bed,” said his father softly as they parted. “And then--”

“You will take me?” There was laughter in his mother’s voice, though she did not actually laugh. He felt his father’s body shift slightly and then his chest shook with silent laughter too.

“Mayhaps I could be persuaded.”

“I was rather hoping you could.”

His father lifted him easily and carried him up the flight of steps to his own bed, whereupon his mother pulled back the sheets and laid him beneath them.

The last thing Bran heard was his bedchamber door closing quietly behind them.  

 

ARYA

 

Preparations for the arrival of Lord Hoster Tully had begun a moon’s turn in advance, as it was a rare but much anticipated event for the Lord of the Trident to visit Winterfell, even though his eldest daughter was the lady of the house. The stores had been replenished, fresh food brought in from the glass gardens and the crofts, and the entire castle had been cleaned and decked out in fine style.

The morning had dawned fine and mild, and very quickly the castle became a hive of activity. Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn were busy with a hundred tasks and it wasn’t long before the boys were sent down to the lake to do a little fishing, Sansa was told to find Jeyne Poole and Arya was instructed to get out from underfoot before she caused an accident. Her mother fixed her with an exasperated look and told her to go out and take her pony for a ride but to make absolutely sure that she was back in enough time to tidy herself up and change from her riding leathers into a suitable dress.

But time was a difficult thing to judge when you found yourself out alone in the wilds and there were a thousand and one different distractions all around, each as interesting as the next. It was only when the shadows began to grow long that Arya remembered her promise to her mother and realised that she was still several leagues from home, deep in the vast expanse of moorland that lay south of Winterfell.

She put her heels into her pony and galloped back straight down the King’s Road towards home. Panic gripped her as she approached the castle and saw the rear of the Tully procession passing under the drawbridge. She looked down at herself – her breeches and boots were spattered with mud and her hair was a nest of unruly windblown tendrils. Her mother would be furious, and Septa Mordane… well, she would be even worse.

Arya trotted back through the gates, hoping that if she followed the straggling Tully riders, she would stay out of sight, but as she tried to sneak into the stables, from across the courtyard, she heard Sansa’s cry. “Mother, there’s Arya!”

It was just like her sister to draw attention to Arya in a moment of failure. Lady Catelyn’s face darkened, and as Arya saw the look on her mother’s face, a hot flush of embarrassment coursed through her. She slid down from the saddle, ran her hands through her hair in a desperate attempt to tame it, then walked stiffly towards where the rest of her family were lined up waiting to meet their guests. Bran’s eyes were full of sympathy as she sidled in beside him. “Where have you been?” he hissed under his breath, but Arya did not reply. Instead, she stole a furtive look up at her father. Lord Eddard was looking straight ahead, waiting for Hoster Tully to be helped from his horse, but as Arya glanced at him, his eyes flickered down towards her and he shook his head ever so slightly. His face was stern. Her mother’s expression had not improved either; she was looking in horror at Arya’s muddied garb and the tangled chaos of her hair, a frown between her eyes.

Shamed, Arya looked away and stared at the ground. She hadn’t meant to be late returning. But now she had let down her parents and that was worse than any number of lectures from Septa Mordane or any remark Sansa could have made. She felt tears filling her eyes and blinked them back in desperation. Crying would not do her any good now.  

With her head still down, she heard her parents greet Lord Hoster – a formal but friendly welcome from her father and then an embrace from her mother. But then Bran elbowed her and Arya jerked her head up just in time to see their guest begin to move along the line. He took Robb’s hand and shook it firmly. “You keep growing, lad,” he told him. “A far cry from the tiny babe I held in my arms all those years ago at Riverrun. You must be proud of him, Ned.”

“I am, of course,” replied Lord Eddard.

“And Sansa, still as pretty as you were the last time I saw you,” continued Lord Hoster. Sansa smiled graciously and gave a little curtsey.

“Grandfather,” she said, head bowed. Her hair was neatly braided, her cheeks rosy, and her dress immaculate.  

“Oh, don’t call me that, child! It makes me feel old.” He moved a pace along to stand in front of Arya. “Now, could this be Arya, Cat?” he said with a short laugh. “Or do you have a ragamuffin amongst your brood?”

But Lady Catelyn did not seem in the mood for making light of Arya’s misdemeanour. She smiled tightly. “It is Arya, Father,” she replied. Arya felt her heart sink away at the weariness in her mother’s voice. She looked up at Lord Hoster. Though she had thought his comment had been in jest, he was straight-faced and unsmiling as he looked down at her and Arya took that as disapproval too. It was a judgement too far. Tears filled her eyes again but this time they flooded over and poured down her cheeks. With an audible sob, she turned and fled.

The entire castle seemed to fall silent as she ran away, save her mother’s voice which called out for her to stop and come back. Arya ignored the summons. It was so unfair. Nobody seemed to understand that however hard she tried, she just never seemed to be able to get it right. Sansa, on the other hand, never did anything wrong. Arya’s writing wasn’t as neat as her sister’s, her stitches weren’t as straight, her clothes were never as clean or as tidy. She was the perfect lady – ever a credit to their parents. Everything about Arya was a disappointment. Or that, at least, was how it sometimes seemed.

The shame made her want to hide, to disappear into thin air so that they could not find her and scold her for her sin. They would come looking for her if she went to her chambers so she bolted into the Great Hall instead and slid beneath the high table. It had already been set for the welcoming feast tonight and a thick linen cloth embroidered with running direwolves covered it, falling almost to the floor on all four sides. It would serve well to hide her from view while she composed herself and stewed alone for a while. They would never think to look for her here.

She sat cross-legged underneath the table, angry at herself and wishing she had a way to turn back time and set things right. She imagined running away from the castle and living in the wilds somewhere, dressed up as a peasant girl, and wondered how long it would be before any of them noticed that she was even gone.

The sounds of footsteps, laughter and conversation grew as the Great Hall slowly filled with men, but Arya made no move to come out. She was blindly trying to braid her hair when the chair beside her was pulled out and she saw her mother’s feet appear beneath the table, followed almost immediately by her father’s fresh-polished and shining boots. “Welcome to Winterfell’s Great Hall,” he called out above the noise and the voices silenced. Arya imagined the entire room turning to face him, as they did whenever he spoke to the household. Such was the respect her father commanded that he often did not even have to say a word, but merely get to his feet and the hall would fall quiet. “It is our great pleasure to have you here. I offer you meat and mead, warmth and rest, and ask the Gods to bless you. Sit and eat.”

His words were greeted with a low hum of approval. Her father sat down and stretched his legs out in front of him. Arya scooted over to avoid them as he crossed them at the ankle.  She heard the sounds of the feast beginning, the clank of cutlery against platters, the chink of cups as toasts were raised around the room, and then the smells filtered down to her. Arya’s stomach rumbled, but she didn’t dare come out now. She was stuck under here now until the room emptied.

Time dragged on. She counted the direwolves embroidered on the tablecloth five times over then watched the occasional shifting of her parents’ feet, and then Bran’s as they swung back and forth. Finally, it seemed that the hall had emptied somewhat for the clamour of conversation began to subside. Arya’s feet were numbed and prickling from sitting on the hard floor, and as she shifted about to try to ease the discomfort, she noticed her father place his hand upon her mother’s thigh and rub gently. “Do not worry, Cat,” he said. Now that the hall was quieter, his voice was easy to hear.

“I can’t help it,” replied her mother, her fingers closing around his hand and squeezing it. “One of these days she is going to get herself into terrible trouble with this running away.”

_They are talking about me_ , thought Arya. She held her breath and listened closer.

“I know… I will speak to her on the morrow,” said her father. “She needs to understand that we are more worried for her than angry. But she also needs to know that it is time for the growing up to begin.”

“These things can be forgiven a child, but not a woman grown, and our little girl is not so many years away from that.”

There was a pause and Arya marvelled a moment at how her parents were seamlessly threading their words together, as if they were delivering some kind of monologue. She heard a clunk as a cup was set down on the table. “Well, let’s to bed, my love. The food is all but gone and the torches burn low. The last souls will be retiring soon, too.”

“Yes…”

“Even those who might think it wise to stay away from their beds.”

“Yes, even those.”

Her father got to his feet and her lady mother followed too. Arya heard them kiss, and then their footsteps retreated. She waited a long moment before she considered it safe enough to emerge from beneath the tablecloth. The Great Hall was empty, apart from a few serving girls clearing away the remaining plates and leftover food, and some of the torches that lined the walls had already been extinguished. Arya took a last look at the seats where her parents had been sitting and then slipped out of the door, unseen, and crept up to her bedchamber.

She would apologise to them both on the morrow and she would try not to ever let them down again. 

 

The End. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who've commented, left kudos or bookmarked. It is always appreciated. :)


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